


On the Path (it could have happened)

by Verbana



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Bears, Blow Jobs, Bottoming, Breaking Celibacy Vows, Breast Fucking, Crossdressing, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, Drunk Sex, Elves, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Face-Fucking, Facials, Fingerfucking, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Marathon Sex, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, Religious Guilt, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Sex Work, Size Kink, Smut, Spanking, Threesome - F/F/M, Threesome - F/M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, Wall Sex, Wax Play, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2020-12-21 09:04:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 67,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21072356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbana/pseuds/Verbana
Summary: What about all theotherpeople Geralt could have hooked up with?1.Good Game: Geralt has a few moves to show Lambert2.Masquerade: Elven tailor Elihal gives Geralt a fitting3.Toy: Geralt finds Philippa and her apprentice at play4.Smolder: Siegfried struggles with the desires of the flesh5.Dawn: At the Passiflora, Geralt hires a young man6.Trouble: Geralt walks Rosa var Attre home7.Hunters: Mislav invites Geralt to share a supper8.Poetic License: Geralt and Dandelion discover new options9.Acrobatics: Eveline Gallo is bored and flexible10.Heat: A night in a cold cave with Hjalmar and Folan11.Stripes: Vernon Roche needs to unwind12.Ruin: Olgierd von Everec can feel again13.Superior Steel: Geralt has a proposition for Hattori14.Interlude: Anna Henrietta requests special services15.Viper: Letho is big16.Body: Vlodimir enjoys a break from the crypt17.Fool's Luck: Priscilla is curious about Dandelion and Geralt18.Captive: Iorveth interrogates





	1. Good Game (Lambert)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a compilation of stories about characters Geralt didn't have a chance to sleep with in the games, books, and show. So, it will consist mostly of M/M pairings but also have some M/F and threesomes of various genders. Some entries will be very PWP and others will have more story. I'm happy to take suggestions from readers, but can't guarantee I'll write them.
> 
> Mildly dubious consent content warning for this first story, as Lambert is horny but combative and consent is not clearly given.

**Good Game** (Lambert)

Lambert was angry. He was always angry, but Geralt had managed to kick it up to a whole new level when he refused to kill the other witcher, Jad Karadin.

“Have you even stopped for a moment to consider he might be telling the truth?” Geralt asked as he strode beside him. “What if Aiden did bungle the job, spend all the reward, and dig his own grave?”

They were walking back to the inn—or stomping, in Lambert’s case.

“_You _don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Lambert said harshly. “Who spent time with Aiden? You or me? He didn’t do shit like that.”

“The School of the Cat isn’t exactly famous for its honorable alumni,” Geralt reminded him.

“You know, Geralt, not everyone can be as perfect as you,” Lambert spat. “Some of us are just trying to survive out here and make a living. We can’t always take the highest ground so that our best friend, the worshipful bard, will write epic ballads about our heroics.”

“I’m not perfect,” Geralt said wearily, falling back into the same old rut of Lambert’s jealousy and resentment. “I’ve made a lot of bad choices that I regret. That’s why I can’t just rush in a cut down a man, in front of his family, when it’s his word against yours. If you’re wrong, that will be a weight on me for the rest of my life.”

Lambert’s jaw clenched. “His word against mine? Which one of us trained and fought and drank beside you for years? Pretty sure it wasn’t Karadin.”

Then Geralt realized then that Lambert wasn’t just angry, he was hurt. Deeply hurt. He’d brought Geralt to back him up and then was humiliated in front of his enemy when Geralt refused to fight.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Lambert stopped and looked at him. The pale yellow door of the inn was just there ahead of them. Outside it, a piper was doing his best to keep up a merry tune, a meager bowl of coins at his feet. The last light of evening slanted over Lambert’s flushed face, shining off the dark whiskers on his chin. His brows were thunderclouds over his stormy eyes.

“That’s not gonna cut it,” Lambert said, glowering. “You don’t get to fuck me over and then pat me on the head to make it all better.”

“I’ll buy you a drink,” Geralt said, gesturing to the inn.

“You’ll buy me a shitload of drinks,” Lambert said. “And then you’ll show me that move you did with the ekimmara…and then I’ll think about not stabbing you in your sleep.”

Geralt grimaced. “Deal.”

The inn had already started to fill up with the raucous evening crowd. The only free tables were in the center of the room, which made both witchers wince. They preferred to have their backs to the wall and their conversations private. So Geralt bought a jug of Termerian Rye and a big bottle of Redanian Herbal and they retreated to Lambert’s room to drink and play Gwent.

Lambert had a pretty good deck and he gave Geralt a decent run, but the more they drank, the less they could concentrate on the game. Lambert’s face had lost the heaviness of anger and now was flushed for an entirely different reason.

It turned out his rare card was none other than Triss Merigold, which delighted Geralt. “Should I tell Triss that she’s your prize possession?”

“Only if you wanna get a steel sword through the eye,” Lambert threatened. “It’s just a card. It doesn’t change the way I feel about that snotty bitch, Merigold.”

“You need to let up. She was just trying to look after Ciri’s safety,” Geralt argued. “Maybe she got a little harsh in her criticism, but Kaer Morhen is a different world compared to the sorceress school. We didn’t know how to raise a little girl.”

“We did everything for Ciri,” Lambert said. He set a powerful archer on his field.

“We did,” Geralt agreed. “And you really helped her a lot in those days, even though you were as much of a brat as you are now.”

“Whoa, don’t spread the flattery on too thick, old man,” Lambert said, snickering.

Geralt took a long drink of the rye and handed it to Lambert. He liked watching the way Lambert lifted the heavy jug in a smooth motion, muscles in his arm bulging. When he brought it down, his full lips were wet and shining.

“You know I’m gonna go back and kill Karadin anyway,” he told Geralt as he set down a siege card.

“I know,” Geralt said, “that’s your choice.” He put down a Crinfrid Reaver. “But he’s going to be expecting you now.”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Lambert grumbled. “If he kills me, I’m gonna come back and haunt your ass.” He set down an infantry card in the first row.

“You did always have an appreciation for my ass,” Geralt teased. He used a decoy to snatch back his Villentretenmerth card so he could use it again.

Lambert rolled his eyes. “What is it with you? I swear you’ll fuck anything that moves.”

Geralt shrugged. “If it’s attractive and willing.” He met Lambert’s sneer without flinching. “What? You got high standards for your prick?”

Lambert just scowled, but his eyes jumped away from Geralt’s. “I wouldn’t fuck you. That’s my standard.”

“Really?” Geralt said amused. “You gonna tell me you’re not half-hard right now just thinking about it?”

“You just called me a brat a second ago,” Lambert shot back. “Now you wanna get it on?”

“Maybe you were right,” Geralt said, grinning. “Maybe prickly, selfish assholes like you and Yennefer really turn me on.”

“Don’t compare me with her,” Lambert grumbled. “And don’t think I’m gonna play this game.”

“What game? Gwent?”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you just trying to distract me?”

“Do you want to be distracted?”

“I wanna punch you in the nose right now, so I guess it’s working,” Lambert said caustically. He tossed his Gwent deck down and got to his feet, watching Geralt warily.

Geralt rested his hands on the floor behind him and leaned back, gazing up at him with a slow smile. “You wanna fight or you wanna fuck? Because I can guarantee you’ll be asking for a rematch either way.”

He’d never seen that look on Lambert’s face before, never seen that shock and heat. He’d never known Lambert to struggle for a comeback. Then Lambert pushed his features back into the familiar scowl. “Let’s see what you got, old man.” He pulled off his boots and unlaced his chest armor.

Geralt stood slowly, wondering where this was going. Either way, he was onboard. He mirrored Lambert’s movements, removed his own boots and heavy cuirass.

Across from him, Lambert flexed his shoulders like he was getting ready to box, but there was a telling bulge in his trousers that drew Geralt’s eyes. Geralt sucked in a quick breath.

Lambert lunged at him, feinting a blow at his face, while his other fist went to Geralt’s gut. Geralt twisted aside, tried to grab Lambert’s arm and wrench it back. Lambert hooked his leg around Geralt’s and to pull him down, but Geralt just moved in close, pressing his body into Lambert’s. He still had Lambert’s arm bent behind his back.

Lambert snarled and shoved at Geralt with his free hand. His cat eyes were full and dark. Geralt could smell his sweat and arousal. Lambert ducked in close to his face and tried to bite him, teeth snapping. Geralt jerked away and Lambert forced him down.

They fell to the floor with a thud. Geralt gasped at the pain of the impact. He’d have a huge bruise on the back of his shoulder later. Lambert scrambled on top, trying to pin him. He grappled with Geralt’s arms while his hard groin pressed into Geralt’s belly.

Geralt bucked and flipped them, still fighting for control. He used one arm as a barrier to block Lambert’s blows and slipped the other under the waistband of Lambert’s trousers where his cock was wet and straining for contact. Lambert surged into his touch. His arms flopped to his sides, hands now clenched against the floor.

“You want me to take care of this little guy, or you wanna keep hitting me?” Geralt asked, stroking his thumb over the weeping slit of Lambert’s cock.

Lamberts head fell back and his mouth opened with a gasp. “You pervy fuck,” he groaned.

Geralt yanked Lambert’s trousers down enough to free his dick. It was flushed and angry, like the rest of him, and it really wanted some contact. Geralt sucked the head lightly, spreading the salty taste over his tongue, then swallowed it down, as deep as he could. Lambert started bucking under him like a wild horse, swearing and panting. Geralt held him down with a forearm across his hips to control his movement.

Lambert sank a hand in Geralt’s hair, trying to push his head down, force him deeper. Geralt hummed low in his throat, a trick he’d learned from a whore in Vizima. Lambert stopped speaking and just shouted wordlessly, back arching on the floor. He was so close. Geralt could feel Lambert’s balls tightening. His own cock was trapped in his trousers and begging to join.

Geralt released Lambert’s dick, twisted out of his grip, and sat up.

“Fuck!” Lambert shouted, shining with sweat and hoarse with fury. “I hate this game!”

“Patience, little wolf,” Geralt said, unlacing his own trousers. “Take off your clothes and we’ll play some more.”

“Fuck you,” Lambert hissed. But he was already writhing out of his trousers. “You’d better get me off, old geezer. Or I’ll tell Yen and Merigold and all the others that you’re a dirty little cocksucker.”

Geralt shrugged, yanking down his trousers and kicking them off. “If they don’t know already, they ought to. I learned my basic techniques from them.”

Lambert barked out a low laugh. He was still sitting on the rug, looking up at Geralt. “You don’t have an ounce of shame, do you?”

“Should I?” Geralt said, kneeling again. “Do you want me to be bashful and distant or do you want me to fuck you into the floor?”

That startled, starved look appeared again, like Lambert didn’t even know he’d wanted it. He pretended to be disdainful, snorting and looking away. “Maybe I’ll fuck you.”

“Nah,” Geralt said, reaching for his bag where it rested nearby, against the wall. “You wouldn’t know what the hell you were doing. I’m not into fumblers.” He opened a jar and scooped out a generous glob of ointment.

Lambert’s eyes narrowed. “If you think that’s going inside me…”

Geralt leaned over him and closed his smeared hand around Lambert’s stiff cock. Lambert jerked into his grip with a grunt of surprise and satisfaction. Geralt bent and teased the head with the tip of his tongue. Lambert made a long sound of satisfaction.

Then Geralt traced a finger down between his balls to his tight hole. The first joint of the finger slipped in with surprising ease. Lambert gasped. Geralt looked up at his face, wrecked with lust. Then Lambert flopped back to lie on the floor, pushing against Geralt’s hand. Geralt inserted the whole finger, moved it around, added another. Lambert was stretching so good for him, panting softly where he lay. When Geralt starting crooking his fingers, searching, Lambert rolled into it, swearing under his breath.

“What are you waiting for, Grandpa?” he said roughly. “Can’t get it up?”

“Fucking brat,” Geralt growled. He grabbed a rolled-up blanket attached to his pack and shoved it under Lambert’s lower back. He reached for the jar again and slicked up his own cock. Then, in a swift motion, he thrust into Lambert’s glistening hole. He could only get the head in at first, but that alone made Lambert jolt and grab at the rug beneath him.

“Shit!” he shouted. “You’re a goddamn enormous bastard, you know that?”

“Thank you,” Geralt said, working his way in with steady pushes. Lambert opened for him gradually, sweating and grunting insults. He was as hot as a blacksmith’s furnace and as strong as a stallion. His thighs squeezed Geralt’s hips, urging him deeper.

“There,” he said shakily when Geralt was seated. His eyes were unfocused and his mouth was red and wet. “All right, fuck me like you mean it. I’m not your goddamn delicate lacy sorceress.” He was already pushing up, trying to rub his cock into Geralt’s belly.

Geralt felt his dick jerk inside Lambert. He started moving, lifting and thrusting. Lambert rocked with him, taking him deep. Geralt grabbed Lambert’s thighs and pushed his legs up. The angle helped him slide even deeper and Lambert yelled, arching his body. His eyes rolled back in his head. Geralt went for it again, started pounding him there. Lambert was crying out now. His swollen cock jerked and bounced between them.

Then Geralt slowed, letting his thrusts descend into lazy rolls. It was too good to end so soon. Lambert’s head jerked up, panting for breath, and the enraged look on his face nearly made Geralt laugh. “Patience, baby wolf,” Geralt purred, still sinking into him rhythmically. “You don’t want it all over now, do you?”

“I’m going to break your cock off in my ass,” Lambert threatened. He squeezed hard and Geralt had to force his thoughts into a meditation technique to keep from coming immediately. He stilled as Lambert continued to tighten and release his muscles regularly, massaging Geralt’s dick.

Then, Geralt surprised him with a hard thrust that pushed him back on the floor. “Yeah,” Lambert gasped, “Like that.” Geralt built his speed, rocking Lambert with his force. Geralt bent Lambert’s folded legs back, pushing his knees to his chest. Lambert’s ass was angled up to him and he hammered into it.

“C’mon,” Lambert groaned. “Harder, you bastard.” His hands clutched at Geralt’s back, fingernails digging into his skin.

Geralt obeyed, slamming into Lambert for all he was worth. When Lambert was reduced to yelping mindlessly again, Geralt released one knee to grab his cock and twist it firmly. Two strokes and Lambert was dumping come between them. Geralt kept thrusting, milking him through it. He leaned in close to see Lambert’s desperate face.

Lambert lifted his head as though for a kiss, but instead, he bit Geralt’s bottom lip. Hard.

Geralt cried out into his mouth and felt his release rip through him. Lambert let go of his lip and bit his jaw. Pain jolted his ecstasy to another level. Geralt shuddered as hot waves of pleasure enveloped him. He emptied himself inside Lambert, and collapsed.

Lambert didn’t even let him rest a moment. He immediately threw Geralt off. And they lay side by side, sweaty and limp. Geralt turned his head and saw a couple of crumpled Gwent cards. He hoped they weren’t from his deck.

He reached over and put a hand on Lambert’s hot, slick shoulder. Lambert allowed him that much.

“Good game,” Geralt said, still breathing hard. “Let me know when you want a rematch.”

“Ugh,” Lambert groaned. “Fucking perverted lecher.”

“At your service,” Geralt said. He folded his other arm under his head and smiled up at the ceiling.


	2. Masquerade (Elihal)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt visits elven tailor Elihal and experiences a memorable fitting session.

**Masquerade**

It was a blue day. I wore my iris-blue tunic and belted it with satin. My fawn-colored breeches had strands of dark blue ribbon woven into the knees. I smoothed back my hair and tied it in a neat queue. Dark paint around my eyes enhanced them. I smiled in the mirror. Genial, good-natured, welcoming.

Outside, the washerwomen had already begun filling their tubs with heavy wooden buckets. I wish they wouldn’t do their washing so close to the shop. The sudsy water sits on top of the ground in puddles and brings out muddy patches right on the path leading to the door.

I hung out my display items on the wooden racks outside the entrance, nodding to the foremost washerwoman. They had been wary of me, and still were to some extent. But I helped them with mends when they need it, and never charged them more than the baskets of brown eggs and bunches of red and green chard they brought to me. I gave my scraps of cloth to the grandmothers who sewed them into quilts. Empty spools of thread were made into toys for children. There was little money in Farcorners, but everyone took pride in their own patch of it, trading goods and labor for what they needed.

Inside the shop, I set out my new wares on the tables: an iridescent bird mask, a pair of lace gloves, and a honeysuckle-pink cap lined with pale yellow silk. Then I brewed a cup of spiced tea and ate a jam-filled bun for my breakfast. The usual chatter of washerwomen and the hammering of boat-builders filled the morning air.

While I waited for my first customer, I worked on hemming a brown muslin dress brought in by the innkeeper’s wife. After some time, the door opened and Hetty Sparrow entered, asking to look at the ladies’ stockings. She hoped to get a job in the bank and needed a smart outfit. Although she gravitated toward a silver-spangled pair, put I steered her toward the snowy white ones. Better to look clean and professional than opulent, I advised her.

After Hetty, the widower Ferren came to have his doublet taken in. Since his wife passed, he’d not been eating as well. As I measured him, Mother Dina and her daughter arrived and asked I to add ruffles to their gowns before the next feast day. Ruffles had come into style in the spring after Lady var Attar wore a layered collar and sleeves to her cousin’s wedding. I suggested that they keep the ornamentation subtle and the ruffles tight.

And so, the morning passed. When the white-haired stranger entered, I was marking where to sew darts on the widower’s doublet with a bit of chalk. I stood and set my work aside, greeting the new customer. He wore a battered blue gambeson and worn leather trousers with muddy boots and thick gauntlets. An angry red scar crossed his eye and another marred his opposite cheek. He looked tired and tense. He looked like a killer.

His eyes—yellow as saffron, with narrow pupils— swept over me first, then over my wares. He studied the display of masks (just in time for the Vegelbud masquerade) then looked at the tunics hanging on the wall.

“Welcome,” I said smoothly, presenting myself with a straight back, hands tucked behind my back—as subservient and non-threatening as possible. “Please take as long as you like to browse. If you need any mends or alterations, I do those as well.”

“Actually,” the man said, drawing out the word. “I didn’t come to buy. I heard that you’re a Gwent aficionado and I’m trying my luck against all the top players in town.”

I was surprised, but good at hiding it. “Certainly, good sir. My name is Elihal. May I have yours?”

“Geralt of Rivia,” he said, then added, “a witcher.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” I told him. “I’m eager to play Gwent with you, but it must wait until the evening. I have to be available serve my customers in the daylight hours.”

He nodded. “I understand. I’ll return at nightfall.”

And then he left the shop and a new anticipation entered me. _Gwent with a witcher._ I lived in interesting times.

However, when the day ended and night came to Farcorners, the witcher didn’t. The evening stretched on. I finished my mending and alterations. The ruffles could wait another day. The hour had become late, and I didn’t want to languish in the shop on such a beautiful night.

In my little room crowded with fabrics and threads, I selected a midnight blue damask gown cut to suit my slender form. A loose shimmering shawl covered my too-broad shoulders and the sparkle of false gems drew the eye my delicate ears instead of the slight protrusion on my throat. The paint on my eyes and rouge on my cheekbones completed the glamor.

As I left my room and went for the door, a knock sounded, so close that it startled me. I waited the appropriate few moments (it wouldn’t do to look like I had rushed to the door) and unlocked it.

The witcher stood there, looking even grimier and more battered than before. There were drops of dried blood on his trousers.

He frowned and said, “I’m looking for Elihal,” but before I could answer, his expression changed, eyes widening. “Oh,” he said slowly. “Did you dress up just for me?”

“No,” I said, flushing a little. “I didn’t think you were coming. I was going out.”

“I’m sorry,” he said gruffly. “I got caught up in a job.”

“Come in,” I said, feeling there was little chance of turning him away.

He entered awkwardly and sat at the narrow table that I’d cleared of sale items in anticipation the Gwent game. I went to my little cupboard and pulled out a bottle of wine. Best to keep the murderous witcher happy, if possible.

He took the glass I handed him and sipped from it. “Thank you.”

His low voice and his intense eyes made me hyper-aware of my gown and false jewelry and the carefully smudged colors on my face. I took my Gwent deck from its thin wooden box and set it on the table. The witcher was studying my hands—thin and rough from needle pricks and the friction of fabrics. My nails were short and blunt for practicality’s sake. They were not a lady’s hands. There are some things I cannot change.

The witcher also favored a Northern Kingdoms deck and the two of us could compare cards and strategies together. He was looking for more cards, so I offered to give him one of mine if he won. It took four tries. But eventually he mounted an effective attack and took one of my siege cards. He looked so pleased that I didn’t want to remind him he’d lost thirty crowns betting on the games and could have bought the card for less.

The wine was gone. I didn’t fear him anymore. Instead, I had a ludicrous urge to trim his white beard and his unruly hair. I thought of dressing him in black velvet with a crisp white ruffled collar and tucks in the sleeves. How distinguished and dashing he would look, especially with the scars!

“I guess I ruined your night,” he said with a rueful smile. “I showed up late, kept you here, drank all your wine, and took you card.”

“Not ruined,” I told him. “Changed. Enhanced.”

“Let me take you out and buy you a drink,” he said. And I felt a thrill at the hopeful expression on his face, eager for my reaction.

“Yes,” I said.

And then we both left the house and walked out into the still night of Farcorners.

The moon was nearly full in the clear sky. It cast an ethereal sheen over the low houses, the grass and sprays of flowers, the skeletons of boat frames. It lit a white path over the waters of the river and glittered in every ripple.

Enchanted, I walked out onto the narrow dock to surround myself with the shining flickers of the water. The witcher followed me. I stood and looked up at the moon, lifted my forearms to see it glow on my bare skin. I sensed the witcher close behind me, not touching, just watching me. With more desire than sense, I took a step back, bringing my body flush against his.

I could only feel the hard shell of his armor against my back, and then his arms wrapped around my middle. He’d taken off his gauntlets to flip the cards, and his hands were heavy and warm through the fabric of my dress.

His mouth pressed against my temple. Then he lifted a hand to sweep the hair away from my left ear and kissed it from the pointed tip to the lobe where a faux-sapphire jewel hung. A flood of want washed over me. I tilted my head, baring my neck to him and he mouthed his way down my jaw, down my neck to the join of my shoulder. He didn’t seem to mind the bulge on my throat or the lack of curves on my chest.

His hand pushed the strap of my dress off my shoulder and his mouth moved in to lick and suck the skin there. I was weak with lust. There was an entirely unladylike swelling in my undergarments, as well, ruining the line of my dress.

Then a raised voice behind me broke the spell. “Oi! No business on the dock, wench.”

I shrank away from the witcher, even as he tried to shield me from the night watchman’s stare. “Fuck off,” the witcher told the watchman roughly.

“Don’t,” I warned him. I pulled the strap of the dress back up on my shoulder, smoothed my hair, ran my hands down my dress and turned to face them. “We were just leaving,” I told the watchman. “We’re going to my home.”

The watchman sneered at me and watched us both walk away.

As soon as I reached my house, I gave the witcher his deck and his gauntlets and set him to the door. He looked puzzled and hurt, but he departed when I told him to.

I’d been a fool, thinking I could pass for a lady and seduce a witcher. Everyone in this city was watching me—a strange elf with painted eyes—waiting for me to stumble so that they could bury me.

It was a gray day. I wore a long, dove-gray colored tunic with pearlescent buttons over dark hose. More charcoal paint around the eyes. Breakfast was millet porridge with a handful of early strawberries. The day passed with the usual requests for wedding apparel, alterations, and repairs. A Redanian lady and her servant stopped by to commission a day gown for the Vegelbud Derby.

Around noon, the witcher came again. I wasn’t prepared to see him, and my pulse leapt. When I looked at his face, I could only think of his mouth on my throat and shoulder, the rasp of his beard and the wet touch of his tongue. But I was a professional and I kept myself composed and cool.

As it turned out, he only wanted information about the bard, Dandelion, whom I had entertained from time to time. Dandelion was endlessly amusing, full of wild stories and reckless charm. I gave him credit that he did not immediately break off our acquaintance when he discovered I did not have the body of a woman. Instead, we had continued to meet and drink and chat about art and fashion and such nonsense. It’s good to have pretty nonsense when the world around you is crackling with the beginnings of a firestorm.

But I hadn’t seen Dandelion in some time, and I told the witcher this. He sighed and nodded. Part of me wished he might stay longer. He seemed to pause hopefully at the door on his way out. He thanked me and apologized again for causing me trouble. Then we both gazed at each other for a long moment. His stare lingered on my darkened eyes.

Then he said goodbye and walked away. I didn’t have an excuse to make him stay and he didn’t have a reason not to leave.

That night I dressed as an Olfieri merchant in brilliant gold quilted tunic with a sky-blue head covering. I played cards at the Passiflora until the wee hours of the morning. I didn’t earn much in winnings, but it kept my mind occupied for another day.

Walking back to Farcorners, I passed by the dye pits where splashes of a dirty rainbow covered the hard clay earth. Clouds covered the stars but the moon peered out at me through a spare gap.

It was a green day. I wore a jade doublet with a high collar and silver clasps to match the silver buckles on my shoes. I breakfasted on stale bread dipped in egg and cooked with a sprinkle of nutmeg. The ruffles for Mother Dina and her daughter were finished. I concentrated on cutting cloth for the Redanian Lady’s day gown.

The witcher arrived just as I was finishing my afternoon tea. He looked irritated, which puzzled me. I stood and gave my usual greeting.

“Hello,” he said, “I need a whole outfit for the masquerade—the least stiff and scratchy one you have.”

I hid a smile of amusement. “I take it you don’t enjoy wearing formal attire.”

“It’s like a torture device,” he complained. “Why would anyone choose to be uncomfortable on a night when they’re supposed to be enjoying themselves?”

“It doesn’t have to be uncomfortable,” I told him. “Here, let me show you some recommendations. Then we’ll do measurements. I’ll adjust and alter the garments until it feels like you’re wearing nothing at all.”

His eyebrows shot up and he gave me a lascivious smirk. Well, perhaps the afternoon would not be so dull after all.

I led him to the rack of formal doublets and we soon decided on a simple black one with gathered sleeves and a low, tight ruffle on the collar, in the Nilfgaardian fashion. It had all the markers of style for the appropriate class without being terribly ostentatious. We paired it with fitted black trousers and low shoes. Geralt refused to wear heels. All in all, the attire would not overly constrict his movement, although it offered little in protection, as he pointed out. I reminded him that he could hardly hope to blend into a masquerade in full armor.

Then I told him to remove his clothes and I went to lock the door.

“All of them?” he asked with a sly smirk.

“If you want accurate measurements, yes.”

I picked up my spool of measuring ribbon and the little all-purpose jar of oil I used for lubricating my shears and adding a shine to masks and shoes. One never knows when one will need oil.

The witcher was quickly and efficiently peeling off his armor and underclothes. He set his boots by the wall dumped the rest of his gear near them. Well, we could always iron out the clothes later.

“Stand straight, feet hips-width apart,” I ordered.

He obeyed, standing before me in all his glory. His body was a map of scars—streams and gulches and divots. The heavy tool between his legs had started to rise. I stretched the ribbon across his shoulders and then looped it over his back. The heat and scent of his skin was highly distracting. I jotted down the numbers on bit of parchment.

“You’re really just measuring?” he asked with a note of bemusement.

“Of course. Don’t you want your clothes to fit?”

He smiled. I measured his arm from shoulder to wrist. I drew the ribbon around his chest and felt him jolt a little as it slid over his nipples. I wrapped it around his waist, fingers brushing the hard muscles on his sides. Then over his buttocks to measure the rise there. I saw his instrument was fully erect.

“I’ll need to allow extra room in your trousers,” I said, deliberately sliding the ribbon against the underside of it.

He shivered and gasped a breath. “Only if you’re going to be around me teasing me all night.”

“Hmm...” I pretended to consider it. I moved to his front and knelt to measure the length of one leg. My face was close enough that his turgid member brushed against my hair. I heard the groan roll through him, but he didn’t move.

I mentally applauded his control as I looped the ribbon around the inside of his thigh and pulled the ends tight to read the number there.

Then I draped the measuring ribbon over my neck and recorded the final numbers on the parchment. “All right,” I told Geralt. “That’s all I need. You can get your clothes on now.”

He gaped at me. “That’s all?”

“Did you expect more?” I couldn’t help the mischievous note that crept into my voice.

He took the sides of the ribbon in either hand and used it to gently tug me toward him. “I didn’t expect…but I hoped.”

We were quite close now. I set my palms on his bare chest and felt the roll of his powerful heartbeat. I wanted to tease him a little more, but I didn’t know how much longer I could last. He dropped his head and kissed me—softly at first. And then not softly at all. His beard on my face, and his tongue and teeth on my mouth—it was wild and beastly. I found myself opening to him so easily. But I didn’t want him to think he could push me against a wall and use me like a bit of frippery.

I wriggled out of his grip and snatched the ribbon from his hands. “Very well, the customer is always right. I shall do more measurements. But you must follow my directions.”

He nodded eagerly, lust rolling off him in waves.

“Stand in front of that table.”

When he was in place, facing the display table with the masks, I stood close to his back and ran the ribbon between his legs, rubbing along the side of his hard tool and through the crevice of his buttocks. His back flexed and his hands clenched. I wrapped the ribbon around his erection and moved it softly up and down, then pulled it tight, squeezing him. He almost pitched forward. I could see his knees weakening.

“Lean forward and hold the table,” I told him.

He bent over and gripped the wood with both hands, buttocks flexing with anticipation. But it was still early yet. I let the ribbon loosen and slip off his erection. It whispered down his thigh. I lifted my arm and trailed the ribbon over his bare back, letting it caress him. He sucked in a deep breath.

Then I looped the ribbon around his throat and tightened it in one hand. My other hand reached under him and my fingertips skated up the length of his erection. The tip was wet and rubbed it with my thumb, making him buck into my touch. But he could find no friction there. He bit back a whimper and hung his head, chest heaving.

“Trust me,” I whispered. The jar of oil was on the table next to the parchment. “Stay,” I told him.

After my fingers were generously slicked, I started worked on the tight entrance between his buttocks, stretching and gliding and playing with the nerve endings there. He pushed back against my probing, urging me on. His deep gasps and stifled moans were highly stimulating. Now and then, I gave his leaking tool a gentle rub just to watch his body surge and arch into me. The knuckles of his fingers were white with his grip on the table.

“Fuck me,” he pleased at last, voice rough and raspy. “Come on, I’m dying here.”

I unfastened the ties on my trousers and drew out my own aching erection. Another palmful of the oil hastily applied, and I was sliding into him—almost too easily. He relaxed, bent farther down to easy my entry, and then I was completely in, my pelvis fitted against his buttocks.

Under me, around me, he was a force of nature, heavy and powerful, straining for an explosion. I felt like a man sweeping a torch over a vat of oil. Impatient, he rolled back against me, urging me. I gave him a firm thrust and he grunted with appreciation. Hands placed on his lower back, I steadied myself and began ploughing him in earnest with hard snaps of my hips. He shouted and flung his head up, elbows locking as he braced himself.

Then we were rutting at a steady clip, shaking the table and the wall. Masks tumbled off and fell to the floor. I couldn’t bring myself to care. Geralt was a hot sheath around me, eagerly bucking into my thrusts. His long, scarred back and muscular arms stretched before me. His buttocks slapped into my hips. At some point, I think someone was knocking, but it was all in another world. Between the blood thundering in my head and Geralt’s bestial noises, it was a wonder I could hear anything.

When I was jerking rapidly into him and felt my testicles tightening and my vision blurring with oncoming release, I reached up and grabbed the ribbon that still circled around his neck. I pulled it tight, bringing his head up, cutting off his breath for a moment. He let out a choked scream and jerked and shuddered under me. His release streaked across the floor. I let go of the ribbon. He started to sag into the table, but braced himself again, muscles trembling. I thrusted hard and fast until the sweet pain of release rolled over me and I flooded him with my seed.

Afterward, when we’d both got our breath back, there was plenty to clean up—from the white streaks on the floor to the fallen display items.

“I messed up your day again,” Geralt said, picking up a mask.

“You enhanced it,” I said, still thrumming with the aftershocks of our activities. Some lost business, perhaps a dented item. Well worth the price.

Geralt put the mask on his face. It was a silver wolf, like the medallion he wore on his chest. His mouth curved under the long teeth. “How about this one?”

Seeing him standing there naked with only the wolf mask on his face, I wanted him to devour me. “Absolutely perfect,” I said smoothly. “I’ll have your suit tailored in time for the masquerade. Please come by and pick it up on the morning of.”

“How about the evening?” he asked. “Maybe we’ll have a drink before I go?”

I couldn’t help beaming. “Evening then. Maybe I’ll even dress up for you. Who would you like me to be?”

He reached to me and brush his thumb down my jaw. “Anyone you want. Whatever makes you feel good.” His thumb rubbed my bottom lip.

“You make me feel good,” I couldn’t help saying. “Maybe I’ll wear you. All around me.” I tilted my head down and sucked his thumb into my mouth.

The witcher inhaled hard. “Your door still locked?”

“Yes,” I murmured around his thumb. It popped out of my mouth. “Sit down. I’ll trim your beard.”

He made a face. “That doesn’t sound very exciting.”

“I’ll find a way to keep your attention,” I assured him.

Outside the shop we could hear the singing of the washerwomen, the shouts of children at play, and the clatter of the boatbuilders. Inside it was just the two of us, a heavy chair, a pair of shears, a towel, a washbasin, a jar of soap, and a razor. I straddled his naked lap and began.


	3. Toy (Philippa and Cynthia)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most gratuitously porny story so far. Philippa is seriously one of my favorite characters. Yes, in the game Geralt has a chance to have sex with Cynthia later in Loc Muinne, but he didn't get a chance to join the two of them in this bizarre scene, and I had to remedy that.

**Toy**

He could hear the moans as he approached the door. A well-mannered person would have backed away and returned another time. But Geralt had never been particularly decorous and he wasn’t about to stand around and twiddle his thumbs while Philippa finished up her fun.

Pushing the heavy door open, he entered the large, well-lit room. Braziers heated the house and lit it in an orange glow. Above the large bed, a lantern illuminated the sorceress’ apprentice on her hands and knees, pert derriere in the air, arching into the blows of a thin, flexing cane. He was used to seeing her in a loose white shift, but this afternoon she wore only a pair of light undershorts that revealed the dips under her buttocks.

Beside the bed, Philippa stood, wrapped in a length of wine-colored cloth. She was currently whipping Cynthia vigorously with the slim length of cane, driving cries and moans out of her apprentice.

As Geralt shut the door behind him, Philippa stopped and turned to face him. There wasn’t even a hint of shame in her sharp dark eyes. “What do you want?”

Cynthia rolled over to sit on the bed, showing off her creamy bare breasts and sizing up Geralt with undisguised desire.

For a moment, Geralt had trouble remembering what he had come for. He coughed. “You told me to return when you’d located Triss with the bandana.”

“Yes, yes,” Philippa said impatiently. “She’s in the Kaedweni camp, as far as I can tell. I can give you a talisman to get through the mists, but after that you’re on your own.”

“Thanks,” Geralt said.

Cynthia continued to stare at him. She stroked a hand up her belly and covered one breast, brushing the nipple with her thumb. Her pink mouth fell open, showing the flick of her curled tongue.

Philippa turned to Cynthia with a frown tightening her shapely black brows. The two women exchanged a look full of unspoken words.

Then Philippa rolled her eyes and addressed Geralt again. “Very well, you may join us for the afternoon. It seems my pet would like another companion for our play. However, you must follow my commands exactly or I shall cast you out.”

Geralt was a little affronted. “You just assume I’m gonna jump right in?”

“Yes.” Philippa lifted the cane and ran the point of it down between Cynthia’s breasts to nudge at the edge of her undershorts. Cynthia sighed and arched her back.

Well…pride never got anyone laid, Geralt concluded. He yanked off his boots and ripped his armor free. He couldn’t remember the last time he got naked so fast.

Cynthia had sprawled back to lean against the pillows, watching him with smug satisfaction. Philippa opened a drawer and took out a long, lacquered box. Geralt discarded the last of his clothing and approached the bed, medallion bouncing on his bare chest.

Leaning, Philippa ran her fingers up the inside of Cynthia’s right leg and Cynthia’s thighs fell open. Philippa’s hand slid between them, curling over the juncture there. Cynthia made a breathy sound and Philippa purred. “Look, she’s so wet already. She’s soaking through her undergarments.”

Geralt’s mouth watered. He climbed onto the bed and leaned over Cynthia. Philippa was still standing, teasing Cynthia with one finger rubbing over the seam between her legs. “Lick and suck her,” she commanded. “She adores that.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He surged forward, lowering his head to nuzzle Cynthia through the fabric. She was indeed soaking and pungent. He sucked the damp cloth, getting it wetter, tasting the edge of her. Cynthia groaned and pushed her groin into him.

When he couldn’t take it anymore, he pulled her shorts down to her knees and went to town. She’d removed all her lower hair. Geralt wasn’t sure how women did that without nicking themselves, but he guessed sorceresses could use magic to shape their bodies however they wanted to. Her rosy folds were as smooth and soft as velvet, glistening with her slick juice. He parted them with his fingers and lapped up the liquid eagerly.

Just as he was getting started on the flushed bud of her clitoris, he sensed Philippa moving behind him. Then, without warning, a stinging pain whipped across his ass. Geralt yelped into a mouthful of pussy and there was another hot crack across his buttocks. This was no run-of-the-mill instrument. It sent shivery jolts of heat up his spine that crackled through his extremities. His dick jumped against his belly. He moaned into Cynthia’s cunt. _Fucking sorceresses and their enchanted toys_. No wonder Cynthia had been so loud earlier.

Philippa was a pro, whipping up a steady rhythm but spacing her blows on his ass and thighs so he never knew where the next one would land. Geralt braced himself against the onslaught, vibrating with the sizzling shocks. He couldn’t think, couldn’t concentrate on anything except the sensation of the fiery kisses of the cane. Cynthia was writhing under his face, trying to get more contact.

Then the whipping stopped and Geralt could think again. His nerves still sang with the sparks of the spell, but he could go back to his task of devouring Cynthia’s cunt. He thrust his tongue inside her and pushed deep enough to rub his nose against her clit. The lower half of his face was covered in her slick.

Fingers slid against his belly. “Hold still,” Philippa ordered. Something cool and hard circled around the base of his cock and clicked closed, squeezing him. His balls immediately began to ache with the pressure. He wanted to tell her that he had no trouble getting it up again quickly, if she wanted to prolong the evening, but he was still tonguing Cynthia for all he was worth and it seemed a shame to stop when she was wriggling so happily under him.

Out of nowhere, he felt something push between his ass cheeks and he froze.

“Don’t worry,” Philippa purred. “This is just a little treat for you.”

It was hard and smooth, a thick, crooked phallus slicked with a cool gel that made his skin tingle. She pushed it steadily into him, filling him completely. His cock was pulsing under the pressure of the ring. He groaned and raised his ass so she could get it in as deep as possible.

“My, my,” Philippa murmured. “I see you are a flexible and accommodating companion. No wonder Yennefer and Triss are so mad for you.”

Geralt squeezed around the phallus in his ass, enjoying the girth of it. Then he nearly jumped out of his skin when it vibrated inside him.

“Yes,” Philippa said with a chuckle. “A special gift for you.” She slapped his ass cheeks with one hand and the phallus gave another jolt, shaking him from his core. His dick was straining and aching, slapping into his belly with every movement.

“Come on,” Cynthia moaned, pushing her pelvis up toward him.

Geralt pushed two fingers inside her hot cunt and curled them, rubbing her tight walls until she was a jerking into his touch. Then he started sucking on her clit as he fingered her, alternating between licks and suction. Every now and then, he’d squeeze his ass and get that insane rush of electricity shaking him from his balls to his throat. He and Cynthia moaned in tandem. He sucked her and finger-fucked her until she came, screaming and shaking.

Geralt wanted to come too, but the ring kept him dizzyingly hard. He was covered in sweat and his heart stuttered in his chest.

“Turn over,” Philippa commanded. “Cynthia will take her pleasure of you now.”

_She didn’t already?_ Geralt thought dazedly. He turned obediently to lie on his back, the phallus still humming inside him. He raised his head, looked down and saw the bulbous end of it protruding from his ass. It was green jade and shimmering with magic. The silvery ring around his dick had a weird fin protruding from the top of it.

Cynthia rose leisurely, still a little breathless. She was flushed pink from her hairline to her toes. She smiled dreamily down at Geralt and rubbed her fingers over his chin, still sticky with her juices. “You’re very good with your mouth,” she crooned. “Now, let’s try your manhood.”

“I kept it nice and hard for you,” Philippa said. She grasped the end of the jade phallus and thrust it deeper into Geralt, sending another hit of electricity blazing through him. He arched off the bed, letting out a strangled cry.

“Thank you, mistress,” Cynthia said, gazing up at Philippa with big doe eyes.

_Fucking hell_, Geralt thought. _What have I gotten myself into?_

Cynthia moved to him and straddled his hips, guiding the head of his cock to her slick folds. She rubbed it over her clit and closed her eyes with contentment. Then, she slowly sank down, encasing him completely. “Ooh,” she squealed softly, seating herself. “Apologies, mistress, but there’s nothing like the real thing.” The warm walls of her cunt flexed around him, making him gasp.

“It’s all right,” Philippa said. “I have moved beyond the need for penile penetration and the attentions of hairy, reeking men. But I understand that others have not.”

Cynthia raised herself up and dropped down again, dragging his dick through her. The fin on the ring pushed against her clit and she ground into it, laughing breathlessly between moans. Geralt was so hard that his balls felt like they were gonna split.

Philippa climbed onto the bed behind Cynthia, straddling Geralt’s thighs. She had discarded her red wrap and her bare skin was a darker shade against Cynthia’s milky flesh. Her hands went to Cynthia’s breasts, squeezing and rolling them. Her thumbs pressed into Cynthia’s nipples. Cynthia writhed on Geralt’s dick, flexing her upper back to push her tits into Philippa’s hands. Her head fell back on Philippa’s shoulder and Philippa kissed her deeply, still rolling her breasts in both hands.

Cynthia’s slick was dripping out, covering Geralt’s groin and thighs. He thrust up into her and they both cried out. The jade cock inside him was buzzing like a live thing. Philippa released her grip on Cynthia and let her slide forward toward Geralt. She planted her hands on either side of him. When they started moving faster and harder, the phallus punctuated each thrust with a hit of lightning that blurred Geralt’s vision. Cynthia’s hands were gripping his shoulders and she leaned over him and rocked her clit into the fin again and again. Geralt’s hands were on her hips, guiding her into his thrusts.

Philippa smacked Cynthia on her ass, making her wail. She did it again on the opposite cheek, a hard crack that Geralt felt echo through his own body. Cynthia made a noise like a dying wraith and spasmed on Geralt’s dick, rocking into him slower and slower to draw out her orgasm. Geralt almost sobbed with frustration. He couldn’t even feel his balls anymore and his dick was screaming at him for release.

Cynthia sagged back against Philippa, a picture of satisfied bliss. Philippa stroked her sweaty hair, kissed the side of her face. “One more time, my dear?”

“Oh, I can’t,” Cynthia moaned. “I’m still shaking. I feel like a wet rag all rung out.” She squeezed her pussy weakly around Geralt’s dick.

“Remember what I taught you,” Philippa said. “There’s always more.” Her hand slid down Cynthia’s pelvis and she brushed a finger over her clit. “We’ll find it together.”

Cynthia rolled slowly into her touch. “Can you do that thing with the light of Fendaris?”

“Of course, darling,” Philippa murmured. She pulled away from Cynthia and crawled up to Geralt. Her fingers ran over his lips. “In my experience there are few things that men are good for, but you seemed to have acquired some useful knowledge, judging by my apprentice’s reactions. Come and open up for me.”

“What?” Geralt said. But his lips parted for her fingers. Her heavy breasts dangled over him like plump fruit. He wanted to palm and fondle them.

She ran a thumb over his tongue and nodded. Then she turned her body, threw a leg over his head and leaned forward, sitting on his face. Her pussy was also bare and soft. Her warm juice filled his mouth. She tasted delicious, a richer, heavier flavor than Cynthia’s pussy. She faced Cynthia, so he could only see the round curve of her ass hovering over him. It rocked with her movements and she pushed herself down on his tongue. Then, just when he thought he would suffocate with his nose buried between her buttocks, she shifted forward so that his mouth was on her asshole.

Further down, he felt Cynthia begin to move on his dick again. She made little keening whimpers working herself up and down. “Yes!” she squealed and Geralt guessed that Philippa was doing something nice for her, but he couldn’t see anything besides Philippa’s buttocks and back flexing above him. He tried to tongue-fuck her to the best of his ability, but he had little control here. He felt rather like a piece of furniture spread out for their convenience. But all he had to do was squeeze his ass and get that sweet rush of heat and light.

Philippa’s knees were spread wide on either side of his neck and he reached up with a hand, felt his way up her thigh and located her clit. He rubbed it with one finger and felt her cunt contract and gush more juice down his chin and neck. The muscles in her thighs squeezed tight and she gave a long hiss of pleasure.

Cynthia had started shrieking again with each thrust. Whatever Philippa was doing to her was driving her mad. Philippa’s pelvis started really grinding into Geralt’s mouth and fingers. He could hear her panting breaths. It was ridiculously arousing to see the icy sorceress losing control. She groaned low and long as she came. Simultaneously, Cynthia howled and fucked down on Geralt like she was losing her mind. The jade cock inside him sent him arching off the bed, but he could only writhe in helpless pleasure under the weight of the two women.

“There,” Philippa said breathlessly, slowing her rocking to a stop. “Lick me a little more. That’s good.” She shuddered with satisfaction. “Cynthia, shall we reward him for being useful today?”

Cynthia just groaned. “I can’t move,” she complained. “I’m going to sleep for a week.”

“Nonsense,” Philippa said, finally lifting off of Geralt. “This was no more exertion than the time I tied you to the table.” She helped Cynthia climb off Geralt’s dick.

He lay flat on the bed, panting and still hard as iron. But he almost didn’t feel it anymore. His brain was filled with a haze of throbbing shades of light. His body tingled and shivered with hot-cold sparks.

Cynthia sprawled on the bed beside him, limp and smiling.

Philippa bent over him and released the clip on the ring. It popped off the base of his cock and sensation flooded Geralt. His hips surged off the bed. Philippa grabbed the base of the jade cock and thrust it in and out of him one. The lightning hit him like a metal rod in a crackling storm. His eyes rolled back in his head and he lost control. The room blurred and roared into a blaze of red and gold. Maybe he was shouting. He didn’t know.

But when he came to awareness again, he found himself lying flat on the bed again, a mess of sweat and fluids and aching muscles.

Philippa withdrew the phallus, giving Geralt an arch look. She tossed the toy in a washbasin and picked up the length of red cloth, wrapping it around her body again.

“Thank you for your service today, Geralt. I wish you luck in your search for Triss. Goodbye now.”

_Fuck,_ Geralt thought. _Does she expect me to be able to move?_

But Philippa just walked out of the room, holding her crimson wrap close around her. Next to him on the bed, Cynthia was fast asleep.

_Sorceresses_, Geralt mused. _How do I keep getting into these situations?_

He flexed his limbs and felt the sweet ache, the lingering touch of lightning. He was scorched and sore, covered in come, and thoroughly fucked.

_All right, it was worth it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Big tonal shift as we move on to Siegfried of Denesle. A young, conflicted leader of an order of holy knights must confront the dichotomy between his faith and his flesh.


	4. Smolder (Siegfried)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Siegfried is a major character in the first witcher game and, since I actually played the games in order, he is the first character I slashed with Geralt in my mind, after watching the cut scene where Geralt speaks of him in glowing terms. Maybe that's why I wrote so much about him, or maybe it's just the fact that I grew up in a conservative religious home and I know first-hand how much Purity culture can fuck up your head.
> 
> CW: Brief era-typical homophobia and references to fantasies of non-consensual sex

**Smolder**

I. A Vow Broken

Rainclouds, again.

From the hill, the emerging foundations of the castle look like ruins under excavation. Men swarm around it like busy rodents, hauling stone and mixing tubs of mortar. Siegfried stands on the grassy rise under the thick gray clouds sagging with the promise of another long day of showers. The earlier rains have already plastered his surcoat to his breastplate. He tries to straighten the image of the red rose floating above a golden ribbon. A new design. Many things had to be made new after the grandmaster’s death.

His mind flies back to that day again: the huge, armored body crumpled on the ground of the courtyard, the witcher crouched over it. His yellow eyes rolled up to meet Siegfried’s, like a lion caught feeding. He had a pendant draped over his palm—Jacques’ talisman, Siegfried recognized. The sword still in his hand shone bright with fresh blood.

In that moment, Siegfried knew it was over. The days of hunting cockatrices and ghouls and Scoiatael at the witcher’s side were done. A new era was dawning. In some ways he was grateful. The witcher had opened his eyes to the deception and corruption of The Order. On the other hand, he could no longer feel certain about anything. His faith in the infallibility of his brothers and his leader was crushed. Life was easier with closed eyes.

Still, he took up the mantle and responsibility of leading The Order, when offered it. The Eternal Fire and its defenders continued to have a deep capacity for virtuous acts that could protect and save the citizens of the realm. He couldn’t walk away. He had to build it up better and stronger than ever. So, when King Radovid offered The Order land and materials for a new castle stronghold, he accepted the chance for a fresh start. A new sigil, a new code of conduct, and a mission to bring peace and order to Redania.

Rain begins to fall, splashing on his scalp, quickly soaking his thin, fine hair. He sighs, feeling it run down the bridge of his nose. Rain has plagued every step of construction. For weeks they couldn’t even lay gravel and stone without it sinking into the mud. Now the foundations are finally set, but hauling stone up slick roads and over soggy earth has taken three times as long as it should. The wooden beams are swelling and warping with the excess moisture.

Siegfried descends, squishing down the hillside, retreating to his tent. It’s impossible to stay dry, but at least the oiled canvas keeps the worst of the rain out, even if his clothes and bedding always feel damp and his papers are perpetually limp. His squire is nowhere to be found, as usual. He takes a grayed length of linen hung from a hook and uses it to wipe off his face and neck. It still hasn’t dried from the last time he used it, but nothing dries in this weather.

He stops a brief moment to pray, gloves hands clasped before him. He doesn’t kneel because the rugs spread on the ground are heavy with muddy water. _Eternal Fire, light my way. Pierce this veil and lend your servants the warmth and brilliance of your presence so we may build this castle in your glory and service._

Sensing another presence, he lifts his head and opens his eyes. In the doorway of the tent stands burly Sir Gottlief and two young knights whom Siegfried doesn’t recognize. “May we enter, sir?” Gottlief says. The two others look as though that is the last thing they want to do. Both are flushed and sullen. One has dropped his head to stare at his feet. The other is blinking and scowling at the same time.

Siegfried waves them in. “How may I serve you?”

“Grandmaster,” Gottlief begins, “these two in my brigade were caught in unnatural lustful acts. When determining the correct punishment, I consulted the code of conduct, but there was nothing written about such abominations.”

Siegfried raises an eyebrow. “It is listed under the breaking of vows. These two have taken a vow of celibacy, have they not? They should make penance under the guidelines recorded in the code.”

Gottlief gives him a condescending smile. “Sir, respectfully, this is not the same as tupping a local village whore. You’re young still, but I’ve worked many a campaign, and if you don’t come down hard on the lads who are having a go at each other, the whole camp will descend into debauchery in a matter of weeks.”

Siegfried is flummoxed for a moment. “Was there formerly a separate punishment for those who lay with their brothers?”

“Whipping,” Gottfried says with a smirk. “Twenty lashes for acts involving hands. Thirty for mouths. Forty for bums.”

“I see,” Siegfried says, feeling shaky. “No whipping is necessary, I think. Just the acts of penance. Breaking a vow is the same, whether they do it with a man or woman.”

Gottlief snorts, but doesn’t argue. He has some measure of subordination. “Very well, I’ll take them to the priests next.”

As he turns to leave, one of the boys speaks up. “Grandmaster, sir, may I have a word with you?” He is still standing stiffly, fighting back tears.

Siegfried nods and looks to Gottlief. “You are dismissed. I will send him there after we finish speaking.”

Gottlief looks irritated, but goes on his way, pushing the other knight in the back with the flat of his hand.

“What’s your name?” Siegfried asks.

“Brason,” he says thickly. “Sir, I just want you to know that I never meant to break my vow. When I made it, I thought I’d never love anyone. I’d never wanted anyone that way before. I truly believed it with all my heart. So, I knew I could keep the vow.”

“But you didn’t,” Siegfried reminds him.

He wipes a fast, rough hand over his eyes. “When I met Ogdren, I lost my head. Oh, you don’t know him sir, but he’s good and kind and beautiful, like from a ballad. I’m the one who corrupted him, sir. He didn’t mean to do nothing. Honestly, I didn’t mean to do nothing either. But when you spend every day with someone, when you share a space with someone so lovely like that, it gets to be a fierce hunger—that need to touch. It just rises and rises like a river in spring when the snow melts. It’s got to burst the banks; it’s just got to!”

“You made a vow,” Siegfried says firmly. “Just because you didn’t expect to be tempted doesn’t mean you can be excused when you were. Many of us face the same urges, but we gird ourselves with the strength of the Eternal Fire and purify our minds against such thoughts.”

Brason stares at him with red, puffy eyes. “You had desires, sir? You had a longing so keen it cut you up under the breastbone at nights? You prayed and it went away?”

“It’s not that simple,” Siegfried counters, clamping down on memories. “I still suffer from temptation, but the Eternal Fire burns brighter than the marsh lights of carnal urges.”

Brason sags. “Perhaps I’m not meant to be a knight then. I pray and pray, but I still ache for him day and night. It’s all I can think about. This never happened to me before.”

“The fiery path of our order is not easy to walk,” Siegfried said, putting a hand on Brason’s shoulder. “However, you are allowed a stumble now and then. Try the rituals and tasks of penance and see if it clears your mind.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Brason’s voice was just above a whisper.

“Then this may not be the way for you.”

II. The Flame

Siegfried is fifteen years old and he has just killed his first basilisk. It should be a night of celebration, but darkness lingers over the narrow tower of his family home. Accompanied by his father, he rides to the village with his bloody trophy swinging from the saddle of his horse, dreading every step of her hooves that brings him closer.

His father is a venerable knight, straight-backed and clear-eyed. “We have never taken money for killing beasts,” his father says. “We will not start now.”

Siegfried glares and grits his teeth. “Is your honor worth Mother’s life? We could hire a healer, even a mage, with the bounty from a basilisk.”

“Nothing is more valuable than honor,” his father declares. “Honor lives on after death.”

“But it’s no good to the dead,” Siegfried mutters.

They reach the center of the village and present the gory basilisk’s head to the ealdorman.

“No reward is necessary,” his father tells them. “We know it was a hard winter and you all have suffered.”

The villagers are ecstatic, some weeping with gratitude. They’ve probably collected every spare oren to pool the bounty. Siegfried feels torn.

The tall, thin priest approaches and presses something into Siegfried’s hand. “May the Eternal Flame light your path, brave young knight.” His brown eyes have flares of green at the irises.

“Thank you,” Siegfried murmurs. He opens his palm and looks at the beaten yellow disc with the image of a flame rising in the center.

Back at home, at the top of the weather-beaten tower, he kneels beside his mother’s bed. She can barely raise her head to greet him. He presses the round disc into her hand and prays the only way he knows how. “Eternal Fire, save my mother. Light her way.”

She does not recover. But in the final weeks before her death, she is without pain, beatific, and at peace. She holds the symbol of the flame close to her at all times, lays it beside her pillow when she sleeps. And when she passes into the other side, joining the great flame, Siegfried makes sure it is buried with her.

He knows his path then. He has no fear.

Siegfried is sixteen and he’s just lost his virginity. He calculated that Felina, the milkmaid would be a safe bet. She’d been making eyes at him for months now, finding excuses to bend over and show him the contents of her bodice.

Those contents are on display right now, as she lies naked in the straw next to him. Breasts are softer and squishier than he imagined. He doesn’t really see the appeal. You might as well grab a cow’s udder. As for the rest…her nether parts were quite pleasant around him, but the squeaking sounds she made did nothing for him.

He wonders what drew her to him. He has his father’s narrow, pale face with sunken eyes, a beaky nose, and a thatch of straw-colored hair to top it. Hardly a handsome prize. Perhaps she hoped to be the wife of a country knight.

Now the deed is done. Her arms are stretched above her head in false satisfaction. She coos and pretends that he is a great lover, but they both know the truth. A sense of deep relief washes over Siegfried. He will not miss this awkward mashing of bodies, this mixing of fluids. He gave it a try and now he knows for certain.

Tonight, he will pack his bags and make the trip to Vizima at dawn. The Order of the Flaming Rose is newly formed from the corrupted remains of the Order of the White Rose, and it is already attracting knights of great valor. Siegfried will be one of those knights. He will take his vows and never look back.

III. The Four Trials

The first time it happens, he is kneeling in the sewers beneath Vizima, balanced on a narrow ledge above the wretched channel below. The witcher is pouring a thin stream of alcohol over a cut on Siegfried’s arm where the cockatrice cut a deep rent in his armor. The witcher himself was stripped of his armor when the prison guards released him into the sewers. He fought the beast in a linen shirt, breeches, and boots, all now streaked with muck and monster blood.

His grip is steady as he cleans Siegfried’s wound and applies a salve from his pack. He maintained the same cool control while cutting down drowners and leaping over the cockatrice’s swinging tail. His technique was bizarre: all intricate twists, flips, rolls, and swings, as though choreographed for a mummer’s dance. It allowed him to land multiple swift blows while avoiding the venomous teeth and claws. Siegfried watched him in awe.

Now he bandages Siegfried’s cut silently. When finished, his hand slides slowly down Siegfried’s forearm to his hold his wrist and rest it on Siegfried’s thigh. The witcher has no gloves and his hands are scarred and powerful. His fingers stroke lightly over Siegfried’s pulse point as he releases the hand. Siegfried looks quickly at his face, meets the strange golden eyes consuming him without words. Then the witcher turns away, corks the bottle of liquor, closes the salve, puts them in the pack.

The entire way back through the sewers, that moment turns over and over again. There is a vibration in Siegfried’s bones, a heat in his head. There must be something in the witcher’s salve, he thinks.

The second time it happens in the loft of a house at the end of the market. Geralt invited him to a gathering of his friends: the medic Shani, the bard Dandelion, and the dwarf Zoltan. He didn’t realize how much drinking there would be. He starting sipping the burn of Geralt’s Temerian Rye and then changed to cherry cordial when Shani offered to him. She is lovely—smooth auburn hair like a bright cap, a mischievous countenance, and a great knowledge of medicine and politics. Siegfried is out of his depth here, trying to keep up with these three. They challenge him at every turn and he feels upended. Perhaps nonhumans are mistreated. Perhaps the Scoiatael do have legitimate grievances?

“I must research and consider this further,” he says. The cherry cordial is sweet and cloying in his mouth. “I am too ignorant on these issues.”

Geralt reaches over and puts a hand on his knee. There’s a quirk to his mouth—not quite a smile—and Siegfried feels a flush of happiness come over him. It may just be the alcohol, but it seems almost as though Geralt approves of him. And that thought glows under his skin.

Later, Siegfried sings a song for them in the low light of the fire—a hymn from his childhood. Everyone listens appreciatively. Shani looks transfixed. Her smile encourages him and his voice becomes stronger and clearer. Even the dwarf seems impressed.

When the early hours of the morning creep in and it is time to leave, Siegfried finds himself unsteady on his feet. Geralt guides him down the stairs with a hand on his elbow, just below the scab of the healing wound. “You need me to walk you home?” he asks with a hint of teasing in his voice.

“Certainly not,” Siegfried says, although he very much doesn’t want to leave. He’d like to walk the dark scuttling streets of Vizima with Geralt at his side. But It’s a foolish thought. Geralt has given him enough tonight.

The third time, they are camped in the camped in the endless, interminable swamp. Siegfried is sweating and clenching his teeth against the pain in his leg. A spine from one of the huge, poison-spitting plants of this cursed place lodged in the flesh above his knee. The camp surgeon cut and yanked it out but the wound is red and throbbing now. The witcher examines it carefully, lip curling at the sight of the surgeon’s work. “I’ll give you something for the pain,” Geralt says. “Clean out the wound with alcohol and bandage it again. If you’ve endured the venom this long, you’ll survive it. But infection is hard to avoid in the swamp. You need to get back to Vizima.”

“I wish Shani was here,” Siegfried says, thinking of her neat room with its rows of medicines and instruments lining the shelves.

Geralt gives him a long look. “Did you ever visit Shani after that night?”

Siegfried shakes his head. “My duties kept me engaged. And it would be odd to visit a single woman on my own.”

Geralt lowers his head. “I should tell you…Shani and I have something of a history and we spent the night together recently. I didn’t know if you were interested in her. But it was just for old-time’s sake.”

Siegfried is momentarily distracted from his pain. “Geralt, I took a vow of celibacy. I could court Shani, but it would be fruitless, as we could never marry. I found her attention flattering, but she’s better off partnering with someone like you.”

“Well, I don’t know about marrying,” Geralt says with a wry smile. “We witchers don’t stay in one place for long. Shani knows that. We’re just friends who fuck sometimes.”

Siegfried is taken aback by the crude frankness of his speech. He knows the rumors. Witchers are wildly promiscuous. Shortly after Geralt arrived in Vizima, people were gossiping about his exploits. He frequented public house and brothels in the Temple District. He seduced barmaids, nurses, and noblewomen alike. Siegfried simply accepted it as the nature of men forced to take physiology-altering mutagens and left to wander the world without family or attachments. It is a free life, for all its shortcomings.

“Speaking of which,” Geralt says in his low, smooth voice, “If you need a distraction from the pain, friend of mine, I can help you out there.”

Siegfried feels himself coloring in the heat of that wolfish grin. But he doesn’t know how to respond. Is the witcher teasing him? Is he making a reference to his collection of alcoholic beverages and salves? Or is he actually offering “the distractions of the flesh?”

The witcher seems to take his silence as refusal and shrugs. “Well, take a nice long rest. I’ll lead the unit into the swamp, but I’m not going to join your Order.”

He’s already said this many times before, but Siegfried can’t help but ask every time they meet. There are many highly skilled fighters in the world, but not many of them have the witcher’s intuition and drive to do right. He’s saved the townsfolk from the ghouls in the cemetery even though it meant losing his Scoiatael quarry. He’s battled the Salamandra gangs in the streets of Vizima and brokered a peace between the woodcutters and the swamp folk. He treats humans and non-humans the same. Although far from a paragon of virtue, he has the wits and wisdom and worldliness that most of the Order lack. He is the knight Siegfried wishes to fight beside.

The final time is in the wretched hovel in the Trade Quarter while fires burn and barricades block the streets. Siegfried is sitting against one wall in a former pantry, trying to catch a few moments of rest before the next barrage but instead he’s listening to Geralt fight and flirt with Rayla, the mercenary, in the next room. Then the voices stop. He wonders if they are taking off their clothes, if Geralt is pushing Rayla against a wall and lifting her lean hips up to straddle him. He remembers Geralt’s hands dressing his wounds, their scars and their power. He imagines Geralt pinning him, overcome with lust, and there would be nothing he could do in the force of Geralt’s strength and hunger. It wouldn’t be breaking a vow, then.

He must be delirious with lack of sleep. He leans his head back against the hard wall.

The door opens silently and Geralt comes in, fully clothed. He gives Siegfried half a smile. It should not make Siegfried yearn like a this. He blinks slowly, pretending to be half-asleep. “How much time do we have?”

Geralt settles on the floor beside him. “A few hours. Sleep while you can.”

Siegfried closes his eyes, but his body is as stiff as his breastplate.

The sound of a bottle’s cork makes him open them again.

“A drink?” the witcher says. The familiar caustic scent of the rye whisky wafts toward him.

“I don’t want to lose my edge before the fight,” Siegfried says.

“It will relax your nerves and let you rest,” Geralt assures him. He tips the bottle back, taking a long gulp. The muscles of his throat move as he swallows. His skin is nearly as pale as his hair. He licks his lips and extends the bottle to Siegfried.

Reluctantly, Siegfried takes it and swishes a little in his mouth. It hurts, but it brings warmth into him. He thinks of sweet cherry cordial, the low glow of the fire in Shani’s loft, the half-lidded golden eyes of the witcher indolent and dangerous on him, stirring him from across the room.

Now they are shoulder-to-shoulder here in this abandoned house with skirmishes raging outside. They both reek of smoke. The witcher has a shallow cut on the side of his neck. Siegfried has a bruise on his chin and his lower lip is swelling. He’s close enough to the witcher that he could just lean his body and little and touch Geralt, if he dared. He takes another drink of the rye and passes it back to Geralt.

Geralt drinks deeply again and sets the bottle down. His head turns toward Siegfried and Siegfried meets his eyes. Lifting his arm, Geralt reaches out and holds Siegfried’s chin with his fingers, inspecting the bruise. “Pain keeping you awake?”

“No,” Siegfried says. “I’m thinking of all the people out there suffering and dying while we wait here.”

“I’m just thinking of my own skin,” Geralt says. “We might not get out of this cesspit alive.” His thumb brushes Siegfried’s cut and swollen lip. The spark of pain at his touch is somehow sweet. “How’d you get to be so good?”

_I’m not good,_ Siegfried thinks, aching. “Prayer,” he says. “And following the precepts of the Eternal Fire.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. He drops his hand and Siegfried wants to snatch it back. His fingers actually twitch with the desire.

Geralt looks at him bemusedly. His head tips in close to Siegfried’s. “I don’t suppose I could tempt you into sin on what could possibly be the last night of our lives?”

“I took a vow,” Siegfried says woodenly.

“Maybe we can get around it,” the witcher says, grinning. “Does it cover hand jobs and blow jobs?”

Truthfully, Siegfried doesn’t know. But any lustful contact of the flesh would dishonor him, as he understands. Splitting hairs won’t make a difference.

All the same, his head is tipping toward Geralt’s. Their noses touch. Geralt’s eyes are golden-orange like young flames. Siegfried stares into them, thinking, _Just take me. Don’t ask. Don’t make me say it._

Geralt reaches his hand up again to cup the side of Siegfried’s face. He tilts his head and touches the tip of his tongue to Siegfried’s bottom lip, moving his head to trace the edges of Siegfried’s mouth.

Siegfried makes an involuntary sound in his throat, half a sob.

Geralt groans and instead of kissing Siegfried’s mouth and hurting him, he slides a hand into his hair, grips hard, and turns Siegfried’s head in order to attack his neck. He sucks and bites and makes Siegfried burn.

But Siegfried can’t move. He shudders and gasps. The longing to reach up and touch Geralt is raging inside him. But he can’t. He stays stiff against the wall with Geralt leaning into him.

Finally, Geralt draws back, studies him. “Do you want…?”

Siegfried wants. But he is stronger than his flesh. “I won’t break my vow,” he says roughly. “I won’t betray my faith.”

Geralt nods. And Siegfried wishes that the witcher were that wild creature of pure lust, as others describe him. He wishes Geralt would do what he liked, devour him, hurt him, incinerate him completely. But Geralt is an honorable man. He must have a willing partner.

They remain side by side for the next few hours, in a haze of exhaustion. The witcher meditates and Siegfried lies on the cruel wooden floor, listening to the fury of the night.

IV. A Vow Broken (Consumed)

Rainclouds, again.

The walls of the castle, rising so slowly, are still no higher than Siegfried’s hip when the messenger reaches him. He brings a request from King Radovid to police the summit at Loc Muinne. _A request, or an order?_ Siegfried wonders. He is wary of his bargain with the monarch, but it would be good to get away from the endless muddle of the castle’s construction. It would be good to feel meaningful again.

He takes two contingents of knights up the mountain passes to the crumbling city of Loc Muinne, built by the vrans thousands of years before the elves settled there. They watch the gates of the city, welcoming in dignitaries and their revenues. They watch the hawks and the clouds and the harpies. They play dice poker and conduct religious services. They wait for something to happen.

The air is cold and thin here. Siegfried spends much time in his tent with a bearskin thrown over his shoulders, writing letters. Beyond the flurry of issues with the castle’s construction, there’s trouble with Order patrols said to have become corrupt and started demanding coin for safe passage. The Redanian bank is not releasing enough money to equip the new recruits or buy food and necessities for their daily living. Villages on the borders are demanding protection from bandits and monsters and the knights are stretched thin.

He scowls as a knight calls out, requesting entrance. “Come in.”

“Grandmaster, these two want into the city, but they don’t have papers.” It’s Sir Herfert, the watch commander. Beside him are two men, one very familiar. “This one says he knows you.”

“Geralt,” Siegfried says, hardly trusting his eyes. The witcher looks much the same as ever, although dressed in better armor.

“Siegfried,” Geralt responds, treating him to a warm smile. “It’s incredible to see you again.”

“Vernon Roche,” the other man says, bowing his head briefly. “Temerian secret service.” He wears the lily badge on his chest.

“Does this have something to do with Foltest’s killer?” Siegfried asks, trying to pull his concentration together again.

“Yes,” Geralt says, “I’m happy you didn’t assume I did it.”

“How could I?” Honorable Geralt murdering his king? It was unimaginable.

“We need to get into the city,” Roche says firmly. “We must find out who is behind the assassinations.”

“I trust Geralt,” Siegfried says. “If he vouches for you, you may both enter.”

“Roche is an asshole, but he has honor when it comes to defending Temeria,” Geralt says, drawing a glare from the other man.

“I’ll call an escort for you if you want to leave right now,” Siegfried says, straining to keep his voice even. Geralt’s eyes are on his.

“Yes, immediately,” Roche says. “Thank you.”

“I’ll meet you at the inn, Roche,” Geralt said. His gaze is still on Siegfried. “It’d be nice to catch up, if you have the time.”

Siegfried nods, not trusting his voice.

Roche gives Geralt a final foul look and leaves the tent, accompanied by Sir Herfert.

Geralt makes himself at home, sitting directly on Siegfried’s bed. He talks for a while, explaining Foltest’s killing by the rogue witcher Letho, the pursuit to Flotsam, the conspiracies in the Kaedweni army camp, and the long path to Loc Muinne. He battled harpies the whole way there and his armor is filthy and scored with claw marks.

Siegfried orders a bath drawn and it is brought in the tent so that the witcher can bathe in privacy. Geralt has no compunction about stripping naked in front of Siegfried, and plunges into the tub with a happy sigh.

“This is why it’s great to have friends in high places,” he says looking up at Siegfried with a satisfied grin. His shoulders and arms rest on the edges of the tub, tightly muscled and crossed with scars. His hair is shorter than before. His eyes are the same molten gold, turning Siegfried weak and foolish with hunger.

It’s been almost two years since the riots and attacks in Vizima, since that night in the old pantry with the bottle of Temerian Rye. Siegfried often revisits that memory, imagines a different course of action: the secret betrayal of his vow, the sweet satisfaction that could have warmed him for many cold years. The craving inside him thrashes and roars like a living thing. _It just rises and rises like a river in spring when the snow melts. It’s got to burst the banks._

And now he has a second chance, here in this chilly mountain stronghold with the wind whipping at the sides of the tent.

Geralt scrubs himself leisurely, washes his hair. Siegfried takes off his surcoat, unlaces his jerkin, and pulls off his boots. He is happy. He ties the door to his tent tight with the thick cord. No one will enter easily.

Geralt stands, picks up the bucket of clean water next to the tub and pours it over his body. His wet skin shines in the glow of the candles. He is a beautiful map of scars. His legs are twin pillars of strength. His member hangs heavy and thick between his muscular thighs.

His eyes lock on Siegfried as the Grandmaster of the Order of the Knights of the Flaming Rose hands him a length of cloth to dry his body. He rubs it briefly over his skin and hair. As he passes it down his legs, Siegfried sees that his member has begun to stiffen and rise.

Siegfried swallows, feeling dizzy with the hunger that overtakes him.

Geralt steps out of the tub and closer to him, a stalking lion. “Do you want?” he says.

“Yes,” Siegfried breathes. “I want. Everything.”

Then Geralt is on him like a predator, trapping him in both arms and dragging him to the bed to devour. There is no gentle seduction. No honeyed words. They are tangled around each other, rocking and pushing like two forces of nature. Geralt’s skin is hot against him, still slick from the bath. He breathes great huffing breaths against Siegfried’s face and neck. Both hands come down to work Siegfried’s trousers off his body.

And then they are thrusting together, more animal than man. The naked pleasure overwhelms Siegfried and while he is still writhing like a branch in the wind, Geralt reaches between them, pushes their members together and strokes them roughly. It’s almost too painful. Too much sensation. Siegfried feels ecstasy kick through him like a hard blow and his body arches beneath Geralt. He can’t even scream. All the breath is knocked out of his lungs and he bucks upward, releasing his seed in three quick waves.

He lies beneath Geralt’s heavy frame, panting, light-headed, radiating bliss. His spend is thick and hot between them. Geralt laughs quietly against his neck. Siegfried is trying to orient himself, but his body is a new blade cooling after the furnace, still hot and not entirely solid.

“Just getting started,” Geralt assures him. He lifts off Siegfried a little, pulls up the edge of his shirt to reveal his chest and belly, runs the flat of his palm over everything he sees. His touch sends all the warm currents running through Siegfried directly to the center of Geralt’s hand. Geralt’s fingers reach the slick seed spread on Siegfried’s belly and swirl around in it, making Siegfried flush. When he looks down, Geralt’s erection is still full and flushed with blood, pointing above his own softened tool.

“Have you ever been fucked properly?” Geralt asks in a low rumble.

It’s incredible, but heat goes ripping through him again. His mouth falls open at the thought.

“Do you want to be? Geralt asks. One finger, covered in warm seed slides down between his buttocks, rubbing there, the most forbidden place.

_Forty lashes for bums,_ Siegfried thinks with wild giddiness.

“Yes,” he breathes. “I thought about you doing this—holding me down, taking everything. I couldn’t stop you. I didn’t want to stop you, but I knew I should.”

Geralt huffs out an incredulous laugh. “Fuck, that’s twisted. And pretty hot, Grandmaster.” His finger nudges into Siegfried’s hole. “Come on and open up for me, brave warrior.”

Siegfried tries to relax, but even the first joint of the rough finger inside him feels impossible. He can’t imagine how Geralt’s member will fit. He forces his lungs to slow and his muscles to relax. The finger slides in completely and he feels it searching around, rubbing his walls and working him open. It’s terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. He whimpers.

“Hold on,” Geralt says. He leaves the bed and scrambles through his pack, bringing back a vial of fragrant oil. Fingers coated, he goes back to work, with one finger, then two, then three.

By that time, Siegfried is sweating and twisting on the bed like a landed fish. It’s so strange and intense, and he feels like he is composed of banked coals, thick with heat and ready to ignite.

Geralt withdraws his hand, wiping it on Siegfried’s thigh. “I have to fuck you now or I’ll go insane.”

Siegfried moans, reaching for him.

He flips Siegfried roughly on his front, shoves an arm under him to pull up his hips, and spread his buttocks. “Are you going to fight me?” He hisses. “Are you going to pretend you don’t want it?”

“I can’t,” Siegfried admits, heart leaping against his chest. “But don’t be kind to me. Punish me. Ruin me.”

He hears Geralt gasp, feels Geralt’s engorged member shoving at the cleft between his buttocks. Geralt’s face touches Siegfried’s back and he rests there for a moment, panting. “You’re going to make me come before I even get inside,” he groans.

But then he’s pushing his way in, not violently but not slowly either—a steady, increasing pressure, that forces Siegfried to brace himself against the mattress. He clutches the mattress cover with both hands and presses his face into it to muffle his long moan. Geralt is massive, a pillar splitting him open from the inside. He’s never felt anything like it—this sense of complete helplessness and complete power. Geralt is breathing curses above him, profanities and vulgarities, reduced to babbling by the friction of their bodies.

When his hips are finally flush with Siegfried’s backside, Siegfried bucks experimentally against his grip, just to see if he can throw him off and Geralt clamps down on him, sending a jangling thrill through Siegfried. Somehow, Siegfried’s fully erect again.

Geralt gives a firm thrust that pushes Siegfried of his elbows and into the mattress. The motion presses against something like lightening inside of him and it sets him ablaze. He tries to hold himself steady find that angle again, but Geralt is gaining momentum. His thrusts rock Siegfried like a battering ram on a gate. It’s frantic rhythm of pain and pleasure. Siegfried can’t help the cries escaping him. Geralt covers his mouth with a hand smelling of fragrant oil. “Don’t alert them.” His words are barely more than gasps.

Siegfried actively tries to push back into Geralt’s thrusts. He needs more. He’s delirious with sensation. Geralt closes a hand around his throat and bites him hard where his shoulder joins his neck. It’s fantastic. Siegfried is losing his vision as the world blurs before him. He can’t even move anymore because Geralt is pinning him tight to the mattress, hammering into him. His seed shoots hot, lubricating his final thrusts and he collapses on Siegfried’s back, weighing him down.

When Geralt has caught his breath and Siegfried’s vision has returned, Geralt turns him over again, on his back. He lazily mouths his way down Siegfried’s body then closes his mouth around Siegfried’s still erect member. Rapture fills Siegfried. He is suffused in golden light. It pulses through him like a relentless tide. He forgets his own name and barely has the presence to cover his own mouth to stop the scream. He is consumed in flame.

V. The Way

The summit has barely begun and Siegfried can already hear shouting through the thick gates. Politics. He wonders if Geralt is in there, watching carefully, stalking the assassin. The witcher left his bed early in the morning to meet Roche. Siegfried can still feel the soreness inside him every time he moves, bringing a sweet heat to his body, even standing against the chill wind of the mountains.

The knights of the Order cannot do anything until Radovid’s commander gives the signal. It rankles to take orders from an army officer, but nothing can be done. The regular troops are the first line of defense. The Order is Radovid’s trump card, extra security. It makes Siegfried wonder, not for the first time, what Radovid expects to happen at the summit.

Then chaos breaks out inside the coliseum. Shouts and screams rip through the air. Siegfried looks up and sees what the others do: an enormous bronze dragon descending into the arena. The gates open and Redanian soldiers rush in. But by then, the dragon is already escaping, flying toward a far tower, a woman clutched in its claws. The Redanians continue to push into the arena. They catch the men and women trying to get out and slaughter them. A sorceress gets a blade directly through her throat. A man in a purple cloak loses his head.

The cry goes out: “The mages are killing kings! Death to the witches!”

“Hold!” Siegfried shouts to his knights. There is no official order yet. Pandemonium swirls around them. The vendors and entertainers occupying the square begin to flee. A young sorceress, who just moments earlier was just selling charms and trinkets at her stand, is chased down and pulled into a side street by a pair of smirking Redanians. Siegfried’s hand clutches his sword. “Stop them,” he says to his second-in-command.

Then he sees the Redanian commander shouting orders and leading a tight phalanx out of the arena. Siegfried knows immediately they are surrounding the king.

“What are our instructions?” he shouts.

The commander glares at him. “Kill the mages, subdue the rabble, protect your king.”

Siegfried closes his mouth tightly. His knights are already moving into action, branching off down the streets. It’s been too long since they saw a real fight and they are overeager.

Smoke rises from dragon fire in the arena. Soon it spills from homes and businesses as well, as neighbors turn against each other. Soldiers begin pillaging and raping. Screams echo off the half-crumbled wall of the city. It’s the riots of Vizima all over again, and nothing has changed, Siegfried realizes, as he stumbles through the rubble. He’s still hunting down victims of fear and distrust. He’s still surrounded by mindless fanatics. He’s still following the orders of a madman.

The Order races through the city, following the Redanians on their path of destruction. Siegfried loses track of his forces. He lets them go.

Finally, wandering somewhere on the fringes of the city, he tells his vanguard he must go apart to pray. He walks into a decaying courtyard with fragments of fallen gargoyles spread about. He stops in the center, touches the rose on his surcoat. _My path is clouded over with a storm. Eternal Fire, light my way_.

Silence and emptiness. Perhaps because he has broken his vow, he hears no answers, senses no response. Or perhaps the lack of reply is his answer.

He unfastens the cloak on his back and drops it to the stone. He pulls his surcoat over his head and lets the rose fall. He takes the medallion and sets it on the base of the broken stone fountain. It is a fitting place to make a new start, here in this once great city: the shattered remains of a magnificent dream.

He thinks of Geralt the witcher, wandering the world, slaying monsters and taking love where he can find it, without shame. It is a free life, for all its shortcomings.

Snow begins to whirl down from the heavens. Siegfried unsheathes his sword and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to NaNoWriMo in November and a general lack of motivation for this project, I will not be able to post weekly for the time being. I still want to write more stories for this collection, but the lack of response is a bit discouraging and makes me question the quality of my writing. If any one of these stories was enjoyable for you to read, please leave kudos or comments. It helps me feel that it's actually worth putting time into writing more smutty one-shots. Thanks!


	5. Dawn (Passiflora NPC)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so pleased to find male sex-workers at the Passiflora in W3 and so disappointed to find that Geralt didn't have the option to request them. So...this happened.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who kindly left kudos during my month-long hiatus. The good news is that I did manage to write 50,000 words in November for my NaNoWriMo novel. Yay! Now I can finally get back to the good old business of writing smut again.

**Dawn**: At the Passiflora, Geralt hires a young man for the night

The Passiflora glows with light. All the little diamonds in the windowpanes are glittering yellow. Inside, music and laughter rings through the bustling rooms. Geralt scans as he walks, looking over the merchandise. He’s got a hefty bounty from a string of smuggler’s caches, and after selling off all the extra weapons and armor, his purse is heavy with crowns.

His eyes slide over a pair of women wearing roughly half their clothes: a tall courtesan in long boots and a cropped fur top, and a bare-chested blonde sprawled artfully on a bench. But they are all surrounded by men—nobles with fans and feathered hats who make condescending conversation to cover up their stinking, sweaty lust.

The boys don’t interest him either. There’s a plucked blonde in a shoulder cape and a bearded man in loose breeches who punctuates his simpering smiles with loud coughs. Sure, Geralt can’t catch disease, but he doesn’t really fancy a go-round with someone dying of consumption.

He climbs the stairs and considers the redhead lounging against a wooden screen. Strips of cloth cross her breasts. She stands, hands on her hips, pursing her big red lips. But before either of them can produce a come-on, he sees someone else out of the corner of his eye. It’s a muscular young man with wild brown hair that falls into his eyes. He’s got some kind of crimped gray collar around his neck, brushing the underside of his chin. There are red pinpricks on his chest from shaving the hair there. He’s wearing tight white breeches and his hands are on his hips as he swivels his body and tosses his head.

Geralt doesn’t know whether to laugh or groan. He watches the young man for a time, taking in his awkward motions of seduction: the tilt of his head, the turn of his body as he shows off his round ass in the clinging breeches. He’s trying to get the attention of a pair of well-dressed matrons drinking at a low table, but they haven’t even glanced at him.

Then he notices Geralt’s stare and meets his eyes briefly. A sneer crosses his face as he takes in Geralt’s battered armor and unshaven jaw. And that’s it. _Challenge accepted_, Geralt thinks.

He approaches directly, moving in close enough that the courtesan can’t ignore him. “Are you available?”

“Sod off,” the man says roughly. “There’s no way you could afford me.”

“Name your price and we’ll see.”

The man studies him shrewdly. “One hundred and fifty for hands. If you want my mouth, it’ll be two hundred. And my ass is off limits.”

“Well, it’s a good thing mine isn’t,” Geralt says. “How much to fuck me?”

The man’s eyes widen comically. “You want me to…”

“Bugger me,” Geralt says. “We can do some other stuff too, I’m sure. I have a pretty quick recovery time.”

“Er…” He looks dumbfounded.

“The regular girls usually charge between one hundred and two hundred to peg me,” Geralt says. “Of course, you’re not very experienced, are you? How about a flat rate for a certain amount of time and I promise not to touch your precious bottom?”

“Yes…” the man says uncertainly. “Shall we say three hundred for an hour?”

“How much for the whole night?” Geralt counters. “From now until dawn?”

The courtesan sputters. “You most certainly can’t afford a whole night.”

“Try me,” Geralt says with a predator’s grin.

The room contains a copper tub, a polished side table with a carafe of wine and a bowl of fruit, and a generously large bed covered in a blue spread. It is not the most luxurious room, but it fits Geralt’s purposes. The first thing he does is call for the tub to be filled with hot water.

As servants stream in carrying buckets, Geralt removes his boots and armor. He pours wine in two goblets and offers one to his companion. “What should I call you?”

“Caeris,” the courtesan replies brusquely, taking the goblet and bringing it quickly to his lips. He looks to be around twenty-five—surprisingly old for a novice whore.

“You usually pick up old rich ladies?” Geralt asks.

“I try to,” Caeris admits. “Usually it’s just old men who want their cocks sucked.”

“If you want to pick up the women who come to these places, you need a certain look,” Geralt advises. “Stop shaving your chest. Grow a little beard, if you can. Maybe put a ring in your ear. These women are tired of pampered, smooth-faced dullard nobles in their ruffled collars. They want a bit of rough. They want a man who looks like a rebel pirate or something. That pretty-boy style is only going to attract the dirty old men.”

“Like you?” Caeris says with a wry smile.

“Exactly,” Geralt says, chuckling. “But I like them any which way—pretty or rough or scowling at me like a thundercloud. That really lights up my blood. And I’ll wager you have skills you don’t even know about. I’m going to discover them all tonight.”

Warm water covers Geralt, easing his muscles into a warm lassitude. He can feel the heat radiating off the water and the little fire in the iron stove. Geralt spreads out his legs, and drapes his head over the edge. He’s scraped away all the sweat and grime and seawater. Caeris watches him from the bed. He’s pulled off his long boots, but nothing else. After a couple glasses of wine, he looks loose and indolent draped over the blue cover.

“Don’t drink too much,” Geralt says. “I need your hard dick.”

Caeris snorts. “Are you ever getting out of the tub?”

“Why don’t you come in?” Geralt asks.

Caeris’ nose wrinkles. “And stew in all the filth you washed off? I decline.”

Geralt chuckles and stands, grabbing a towel. He gazes down at Caeris, rubbing his hair dry and displaying his lean, scarred body. Caeris stares back at him steadily, betraying no fear or sign of being intimidated.

Slowly, Geralt advances to the bed and slides onto it, one knee after the other. He straddles Caeris, kneeling on either side of his legs. Smoothly, he reaches down and hooks two fingers under the edge of Caeris’ collar, pulling at it and urging Caeris’ head up. The young man’s mouth is stained red with wine and his eyes are glittering in the candlelight.

Bringing his mouth down to Caeris’ Geralt takes his time, licking at his bottom lip and chin, before plunging in and plundering the wet, hot fullness of his mouth. He sucks on that sharp, bitter tongue and tastes the fullness of the wine. Caeris gasps briefly, but doesn’t protest. Perhaps the alcohol has sweetened him.

The collar is rough against Geralt’s skin. He plucks at it, looking for a catch. “Does this contraption help you pick up people?”

“It’s fashion,” Caeris says shortly. He removes it and lets it fall off the side of the bed without much notice. “Some people appreciate fashion.”

“Some people appreciate a pretty neck,” Geralt says, smoothing his fingers over the red lines and imprints on Caeris’ pale skin left by the collar. He lowers his head to lick at them and feels a shiver of electricity run through Caeris.

His mouth trails down along the hard line of a collarbone to Caeris’ right nipple—a pinkish coin on the flat plane of his pectoral. It tightens under his tongue and Caeris makes a sound, half choked. Geralt sucks harder at it, fingers trailing over to his left nipple. Rubbing and pinching it, he brings Caeris to a full convulsion. Caeris’ hips rise to press his groin into Geralt’s. The fabric of his breeches is rough, sweet friction against Geralt’s half-hard cock.

Geralt wants to rut against him until they both break through the mattress, but he pulls back, sits back on his calves. He looks down at Caeris’ pink, face, wet lips, and dark, sardonic eyes. “Since we’re here all night…how about you give me a massage? My back is killing me.”

Caeris’ eyebrows lift. He stretches his arms out above him and bites his lip. “As you wish, my lord.”

“Don’t distract me,” Geralt says. He climbs off Caeris and swings his legs over the side of the bed, presenting his back to the other man. He can hear Caeris shuffling and sighing to himself as he resigns himself to doing actual work. Strong, smooth hands settle on Geralt’s shoulders. Uncertain fingers rub and squeeze at the muscles and sinews there. Geralt endures the clumsy punishment for a few moments before shrugging the hands off. “You’re really terrible at this.”

“Sorry,” Caeris replies with a mixture of annoyance and hurt in his voice.

“Here,” Geralt says, turning around on the bed to face him. “Let me show you what to do. Lie down on your front.”

Caeris gives him a wary look. “This isn’t a trick, is it?”

Geralt snorts. “Just lie down already.” When Caeris complies, he starts slowly rubbing his hands up and down Caeris’ bare back before starting to press his fingers into the warm, yielding muscles. He works the knots out of Caeris’ sturdy shoulders and pushes into the long, flat slopes of his back with the heels of his hands. Caeris’ body loosens and sinks deeper in the mattress. He sighs and makes muted groans into the pillow. Geralt works his way down to where his hips curve out of his breeches. He kneads at the round, tight ass cheeks and feels them tighten and push.

Geralt lowers his body over Caeris’ long back. He sucks on the curve of his shoulder. “See how it’s done?”

Caeris groans. “You don’t have to be so smug all the time,” he says, voice muffled by the pillow.

Geralt slides a hand under Caeris to feel the vulnerable flesh of his belly and then down to his groin where his swelling cock is pushing against his breeches. “There’s my boy.”

Caeris makes a sharp, startled sound and rolls into his touch involuntarily. He turns his head into the pillow, ears reddening.

Geralt almost laughs. A shy whore? He nuzzles his face into Caeris’ silky back, hand still sliding against his trapped erection. His own cock is nestled in the valley of Caeris’ covered ass, beginning to fill with anticipation. Geralt lifts his head and licks a long stripe down Caeris’ spine, drawing more shivers and goose flesh on his skin.

“Turn over for me, darling,” he says, pushing up off Caeris and sliding off the bed. “I’m going to prepare myself for your pretty prick.”

When Caeris finally manages to turn over—red-faced and rumpled and wild-eyed and practically begging to be ravaged—Geralt already has a couple oiled fingers inside himself. He allows himself a quick stretch, just enough to ease the joining without robbing himself of the warm burn of friction and pain. Fingers stuffed up his ass, looking at Caeris’ mesmerized gaze and slack mouth, Geralt feels his cock hardening and lifting with hunger.

“Get your trousers off,” he tells Caeris.

The other man obeys with a kind of frantic clumsiness, breeches catching on his knees and then his heels before he finally wrestles them off. He throws them off the bed and leans back on his elbows, chest rising and falling, nostrils wide. His cock is standing tall and proud.

Geralt licks his lips and approaches the bed again. He straddles Caeris again, running both hands up his ribs, flattening his palms over his chest and grazing his nipples. His hands slide up around Caeris’ neck, thumbs stroking under his jaw. He feels Caeris swallow hard, but his eyes don’t leave Geralt’s. He bites his bottom lip seductively again and Geralt wants to push his cock there, fill up that arrogant mouth. But first things first.

He flattens one hand on the bed to brace himself and uses the other to grip Caeris’ cock, drawing a soft groan out of the other man. Geralt lowers his ass, guiding the thick cock into his hole. It’s a tight fit, as expected, but the burn is so perfect he closes his eyes just to take in the sensation completely. “Damn,” he says in a rough voice. “You feel incredible.”

When he opens his eyes. Caeris is staring at him, sucking in deep breaths. He curses softly and the muscles in his stomach flutter. Geralt lowers himself bit by bit grinning and gasping, trying to prolong the feeling of that first entry, how his body stretches and protests and his nerves sing with the rough pleasure of it. When he finally seats himself on Caeris’ hips, they’re both sweating and trembling slightly.

“Not bad,” Geralt says, meeting Caeris’ big, hungry eyes. “You fit inside me so nice. How do you like it?”

Caeris gives him a challenging smile, even as his dick twitches inside Geralt, eager to move. “It’s acceptable.”

“Yeah?” Geralt says. “Well, you’d better prepare yourself. This ride is only getting started.”

The rhythm of fucking is always a give and take. Geralt is glad he’s on top because they’re no way in hell that Caeris would have lasted more than a minute if he had control of the situation. He starts to lose it after even a few thrusts, head falling back, hips jerking. And Geralt has to slow down, lift off until Caeris can compose himself. It’s fucking hot, though. It’s been a while since he’s had a fiery young stallion under him really pounding him good. Caeris moans and pleads and promises that he’ll do better, he’ll slow down and make it last. But it doesn’t take long for him to hit the edge again. His hands dig into Geralt’s hips trying to pull him down, pull him closer. He gives a hoarse cry when he comes, arching off the bed. His semen is hot and slick inside Geralt.

Turned on his side, Caeris doesn’t protest much when Geralt slots against his back. “Not gonna use your ass,” Geralt assures him. Instead, he massages Caeris’ thighs with oil and slots his hard cock between them. The muscles there are thick and tight, making a perfect vise for his thrusts. Caeris’ plush ass is pushed against Geralt’s groin. The head of Geralt’s cock pushes against the back of Caeris’ balls with each thrust. It may be his imagination but he can feel them filling again. Caeris is sensitive and loose after his release. He moves slightly with Geralt’s thrusts and makes soft sounds in his throat. Geralt has one arm wrapped around him, holding him tight. His face is buried in Caeris’ thick, fragrant hair. The friction builds in him until he is a piston of bruising force, hips slamming into the underside of Caeris’ ass. He grunts roughly and gives a few more strokes to prolong the waves of pleasure. They both sigh when he comes to rest, still gripping his boy.

Sleep claims them then, but not for long. Geralt rolls over, finds Caeris sprawled and loose on the bed. His cock fits nicely into Geralt’s palm and after a little fondling, it starts to rise. Caeris stirs and blinks at him, but seems content to simply lie there. Geralt leans down and sucks the bell head into his mouth, circling it with the tip of his tongue. It’s salty and warm and rapidly stiffening. Caeris moves then, body tensing and rolling up into Geralt’s grip. He gives a stifled cry as Geralt takes him deeper. Geralt hollows out his cheeks, sucking harder while his closed fist slides and twists around the base. He feels Caeris’ fingers in his hair alternately caressing and pushing. His hips are starting to buck uncontrollably. The first trickle of bitter seed fills Geralt’s mouth. He lifts off, pulling free of Caeris’ grip on his hair.

Looking up at him in the dim light of the low candles, Caeris’ face is a stormy sea of desire and fury.

“Hey,” Geralt says, sliding a hand over his shoulder. “You feel up to fucking me again?”

Braced against the headboard on his hands and knees, Geralt lowers his head and rocks into Caeris’ hard thrusts. It’s so good, it feels like a sex dream—getting pounded hard by a hungry young idiot who’s already had one orgasm and can make it last this time. Balls are slapping against his ass. Caeris’ hands are welded onto his hips and he’s definitely going to feel the damage that cock is doing inside him tomorrow, but right now it feels like it’s pushing the fast rhythm of his heart and the rapid pull of his lungs. He’s getting completely battered and it’s absolutely fantastic. The room around him is a haze of heat and blurred colors. Caeris shouts out a curse and shudders into him.

Lying flat on the covers of the bed, Caeris blinks slowly up at him, a foolish smile on his face. Geralt cups his jaw and rubs a thumb over the shell of his ear. He curls into the touch like a pet. A contented sigh flows out of Caeris. He looks up at Geralt again. “You didn’t come?”

“It was pretty close,” Geralt said. “You made me see stars though, so congratulations for that.”

“You really like it?” Caeris says squinting at him. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“It can,” Geralt admits. “Some people don’t like it. I love it, with the right partner in the right situation.”

Caeris seems to consider this.

“You never know until you try,” Geralt says with half a smirk.

“And if I don’t like it?” Caeris says looking cautious again.

“Then you tell me and I stop,” Geralt says. “But right now, I think you need a little recovery time.”

Caeris glances down. “What about you?”

Geralt gives his cock a long stroke. “What do you suggest?”

Caeris’ lips part in a subtle invitation.

“Just a lick?” Geralt asks, wheedling.

Caeris nods, eyes black shadows in the fading light. Geralt maneuvers down to straddle Caeris’ face and he gently lowers his cock to Caeris’ mouth.

Caeris licks the head with just the point of his tongue, like a cat. Then he tilts up and sucks the tip into his mouth, massaging it with his tongue.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Geralt says without thinking. Caeris’ red lips curved over his cock, eyes fastened on his…it’s intoxicating.

He pulls back when he feels like he’s getting to close. Shifting back down, Caeris’ body, he strokes his cock fast and hard until the punch of bliss sends his spunk flying out. It covers Caeris’ belly.

Geralt runs his hands through it and smears it down over Caeris’ cock and balls, lubricating them.

“I can’t anymore,” Caeris says with a luxurious sigh. “You’ve completely drained me.”

“We’ll see about that,” Geralt says, smiling.

They wash up a bit with the cooled bath water, drink more wine. The fruit on the counterpane is a little over-ripe, but Geralt has been eating dried meat and stale bread on the road. It doesn’t bother him much to eat a mealy apple or a soft grape. The candles are so low, they’ve almost gone out. The street outside is quiet. Through the hazy glass of the window panes he can see the blurred glow of the street lamps.

“How long have you been at this line of work?” he asks Caeris.

Caeris chews on a grape slowly, full mouth working. “I’ve been at the Passiflora for about three months.”

Geralt watches his long lashes lifting under thick brows. “And before that?”

Caeris shrugs. “I was going to be a soldier like my older brother, but after he got killed at the Yaruga, I lost the stomach for it. I tried a few different trades, but the war made it difficult to get steady business. I seem to attract lecherous people, and there are always opportunities for whores, no matter what is happening in the outside world. For as long as I can remember, I’ve resorted to selling my body in hard times.”

“The Passiflora provides better money and security, but only if you’re good at what you do,” Geralt says. “I see a lot of anger and resistance in you. Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Does anyone want to be whore?” Caeris says with a scowl. “I’m here because I’m a coward and a failure. Once I make enough money, I can get out and start an honest trade again.”

“You don’t seem like a coward to me,” Geralt says. “Only fools rush to get killed in the wars of kings. And what’s wrong with the night trade? You get to make a lot of people happy and satisfied. And maybe they can give you some pleasure too. That’s nothing to feel shame over.”

“No everyone is like you,” Caeris says, leaning back on the bed. “Not many of my clients are so accommodating.”

“Then pretend they are,” Geralt suggests. “You’re strong and desirable and that’s power. Use your power to your advantage. Don’t despise it. You can have men and women begging to spend the night with you if you're confident and enthusiastic.”

“So, I should pretend to be excited about being debased?” Caeris says dryly.

Geralt shrugs. “You could stop thinking of it as debasement. As long you believe this work is disgusting and beneath you, you’re going to hate it, and your clients are going to sense that. A sour face won’t get you many tips.”

Caeris rolls his eyes and throws a grape at Geralt. When Geralt catches it easily with a snap of his wrist, barely moving his body, Caeris’ mouth drops open with shock. Geralt tosses the grape into his own mouth and bites into it with a satisfying crunch.

The wine makes them both a little drowsy. Geralt finds his bottle of oil and massages Caeris’ front from his shoulders, over his chest, to his hips and thighs. Caeris’ prick stirs a little, but his body is still heavy and slack.

Geralt slicks up Caeris’ cock slowly, then massages his balls. He pushes a fingertip into Caeris’ hole experimentally. Caeris is loose and relaxed. He doesn’t flinch or tense at the intrusion. Geralt explores carefully with that one finger, giving Caeris time to get used to it or voice his protest, but he simply lies there, sleepy-eyed and unafraid.

For a while, Geralt plays with him, stretching, probing, giving his cock the occasional suck or lick. Caeris’ thighs fall open and he starts to move on the sheets. His stomach flattens as his inner muscles contract on Geralt’s fingers. Geralt crooks his fingers and nudges and feels. There it is. Caeris jolts and his breath hitches audibly.

“Here,” Geralt tells him, rubbing it again. “Here you are.”

Caeris makes a helpless sound and jerks on the mattress. “Fuck, what are you doing to me?”

“Showing you how good it can be,” Geralt says. He scissors his fingers, stretching more.

Caeris makes an impatient noise. “Then do it again,” he demands.

“Oh, I will, darling,” Geralt says, oiling his own hard cock. “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t remember your own name. Does that sound good to you?”

Caeris’ skin is pink with heat. “You’ll halt if I tell you?”

“Of course,” Geralt says firmly. He wonders if someone hurt Caeris like this before, maybe when he was powerless to stop them.

Caeris turns over and presents his ass. His muscled shoulders and back straighten. His dark head drops down. His cock curves up to his belly. The room is dark now with only the guttering lights of the sputtering candles to light them, but Geralt’s slit pupils are wide and his vision is keen.

He works Caeris a little more with his fingers, leaning down to lick and bite at the smooth skin of his ass cheeks. When he finally pushes his cock in, it’s almost too easy. Caeris’ forehead drops to the sheets. His breath is shuddering and long. It’s lovely, tight and hot here inside him. “Good?” Geralt asks, feeling a little lightheaded.

Caeris grunts his assent and Geralt starts to thrust gently, building speed quickly. He sees Caeris’ hands clench in the sheets, feels the waves of force moving through him. Caeris moans into the bed, forearms curved with tightened muscles. Geralt tries different angles and finally finds the place he was looking for when Caeris yelps and his head jerks up.

“Oh, pet,” Geralt says, breathless and fond. He’s caught in the current of pleasure, thrusting toward paradise. Every hard snap of his hips sends Caeris shaking and crying wordlessly. Geralt leans over him, bracing himself with one hand and holding Caeris close with his other arm wrapped around his chest. It’s slick with oil and sweat. His strokes are short and shallow but Caeris is still panting. He lets out a long, pleading moan, so Geralt slides his hand down and lets Caeris fuck his fist.

Geralt’s hips stutter pressing fast and hard until he plummets over the edge, pumping his seed hot and deep. He groans and drops both hands to the bed, easing out slowly. Caeris’ arms are shaking and his cock is still hard against his belly. Geralt turns him over, lays him flat on his back and Caeris’ hands are scrambling for his cock. But Geralt brushes them away and grips it in his own hand. “Put it here.” He lowers himself down on it again, feeling the rough heat of pain again, even though he is looser than before. It fills him up so nicely, he sighs with contentment. “Fuck me until you come.”

Caeris is wild-eyed and his thick hair is sticking to his sweaty face. He rocks up into Geralt without finesse or rhythm, just pounding until he finds his release, arching off the bed and letting out a strangled shout.

Later when the candles are dead, Geralt convinces Caeris to dribble the liquid wax over his chest. It burns sharp and sweet, making him flinch and curse softly at the sting and spike of pleasure. Then the next searing trail laces over him and he jerks and groans again. Caeris watches his face with fascination and an edge of hunger. “Will you do it to me?” he asks softly.

“In a minute,” Geralt tells him. “Let it cool a little more. Witchers heal quickly and I don’t want you to have burn scars.”

Caeris traces the hardening trails of wax with the tips of his fingers. He rubs Geralt’s nipples softly and Geralt murmurs his appreciation.

“Will you fuck me again?” Caeris asks, looking away from his face. “Once more?”

“As many times as you like,” Geralt tells him. “We still have a few hours before morning.”

Caeris stands in front of the counterpane and bends down to grips its edge, presenting the long line of his white back and the smooth globes of his ass. First, Geralt dribbles some hot wax over his back, making Caeris shudder and gasp. “Damn,” he says roughly. So Geralt pours a little more over him, keeping the lines thin so as not to burn him harshly. The spangles of wax crossing his skin look like lines on a map.

Geralt’s oiled fingers work Caeris open again with ease and surety. Caeris sighs happily and leans lower, giving him more access. When he’s slick and loose, Geralt slides into him again, without any hesitation. It’s even better now, with Caeris so certain and eager. “Move,” he tells Geralt, trying to push back.

“As you wish,” Geralt growls, starting up a hard, punishing rhythm. The counterpane rocks with his thrusts. The bowl of grapes overturns, spilling the remainder of its contents. Caeris’ voice is loud and insistent, voicing his pleasure and urging Geralt on. The world narrows down to the rocking of their bodies. Geralt’s balls slap hard into Caeris’. He’s slamming up and into Caeris like his life depends on it. A plate with a half-eaten pear crashes to the floor. The pictures on the wall are shaking. Caeris howls long and low.

On the bed again, picking off flakes of wax and stroking and licking each other lazily. Geralt shows him how to bite and lick a sensitive welt on a lover’s skin. Then he demonstrates the mechanics of a spectacular hand-job, and finally a lesson on pleasuring a prick with your mouth.

One last time against the window, slow and filthy as the first rays of the sun start to creep into the square. Their bodies are sore and over-sensitized, but they know the end is coming. Caeris says, “It’s impossible,” in a raspy, soft voice as Geralt’s fingers work inside him again. He’s practically swaying on his feet with exhaustion, but when the first whip of electricity sparks through him, he cries out and his body finds a last surge of energy and strength.

“Here,” Geralt breathes. “I’ve got you.” And he fucks him with long, sure rolls of his hips, rubbing Caeris' rising cock lightly in grazing touches. Caeris pushes the side of his face against the pane and closes his eyes with a look of dazed rapture.

He’s dead asleep on the bed when the sun rises.

Geralt orders another bath. He can’t really afford to stay much longer, but it’s vital to have hot, clean water. Even after Geralt bathes and dresses, Caeris is still lost to the world. In his naked sprawl, he didn’t even twitch when the servants entered to fill the bath. He didn’t respond to Geralt’s voice.

Finally, pressed for time, Geralt shakes his shoulder roughly.

Caeris groans and opens his eyes, giving Geralt a lazy once-over. “You’re going.”

“I have to,” Geralt says with a twist of his mouth. “You’ve emptied out my purse. But it was definitely worth it.”

Caeris stretches slowly. “I should be paying you,” he says chuckling to himself.

“Consider my lessons your tip,” Geralt tells him. He tries for a serious tone. “Look, if you don’t like doing this work, don’t stick around. But I think you have a lot of potential, if you’re willing to embrace it.”

“You have my gratitude. I’ll be a much better whore, thanks to your valuable advice.” Caeris says dryly, but without venom. “I suppose I owe you a debt.”

Geralt smiles and runs a hand through Caeris’ thick, dark hair, now hopelessly mussed and tangled. All the twisting curls cling to his fingers “I’m sure we’ll eventually discover a way to make it up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this was supposed to be a shorter entry. I can't believe I just wrote 5000+ words about an NPC turned OC, and gave him a backstory. Yikes.
> 
> Well, I'm going to try to whip up an extra quick piece to post at the end of the week, to make up for the time I took off. Look for it then. And don't forget to leave a kudo or comment if you liked any of these stories! It's effective motivation for me to write more.


	6. Trouble (Rosa var Attre)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt walks Rosa var Attre home

**Trouble**

As they left the yard of the Seven Cats Inn and tramped up the rise to the bridge, Geralt could feel the crackle of cold disdain from the young woman beside him. He ignored it, instead looking out to the wide expanse of the bridge, with an eye out for any lurking threats. Neither of them wanted to be there, but Geralt knew her father would have him thrown in chains if anything happened to one of his precious twin daughters. And Rosa knew she wouldn’t be able to give him the slip again.

It was quite a change from the atmosphere of less than half an hour before, when they had squared off for a friendly duel on the bridge and she had said with a smirk, _“There’s more fun in doing things you shouldn’t.”_ He should have seen then that she was going to be trouble. In fact, he _had _seen it, but he’d written it off as typical youthful rebellion. He’d even recognized a bit of Ciri in her—independent, headstrong, and something of a brat, but in an endearing way. Now he knew just how careless and dangerous she was, dismissing the lives of common men as though they were stray dogs.

They spent the entire journey over the bridge in silence with only the lapping of the water and the calls of beggars in their ears. On the other side, passing alongside the head of a pillar, Rosa stopped. Her straight back in the quilted gray tunic was braced like a soldier’s.

“This is patently ridiculous,” she said, not looking at Geralt. “We were equals, weren’t we? Before those horrible men interfered and slandered me so. Do you really have to take the side of the Nordlings just because you are one too?”

Geralt exhaled a heavy sigh. “If that’s what you think happened, you need to get your head out of your ass.”

She whipped around to pin him with a glare. “Excuse me? How dare you speak to me that way.”

“It’s no use speaking to you at all,” Geralt said. “You’re as stubborn and arrogant as Emperor Emhyr himself.”

Her eyes widened. She made an affronted sound, tossed her head and stormed away. Instead of going up the street, she descended the stairs to the base of the bridge, shoulders squared and tight with anger.

Geralt gritted his teeth and followed after her. Dusk was falling and he couldn’t let her wander off again. At this point, he was tempted to just stun her with Axii, sling her over his shoulder, and carry her the rest of the way back to her home.

The sinking light of the sun lit up the river in gold and orange, silhouetting trees, pilings, and clusters of swaying reeds. It illuminated the edges of Rosa’s fitted tunic and lit up the back of Rosa’s golden-brown head and the stray hairs poking out of her braided crown. There in that moment, she was pretty and strong and confident, but she didn’t have enough sense to comprehend the depth of her own pampered arrogance. He sighed again. It was too bad.

As she crossed to the shadows under the bridge, she turned her head to cast daggers at him with her eyes. Then she walked to one of the huge pillars and leaned her back against it. The darkness there covered her, but Geralt’s widened pupils could see her there—arms crossed over her chest, face set into a sour pout.

“Leave me alone,” she said as he approached. “You obviously want nothing to do with me.”

“You got that right,” he said gruffly. “But I’ve got to get you home first. I’ve already saved your neck once today. Please don’t make another mess for me to clean up.”

“I didn’t need you!” she spat. “You saw my sword-work. If either of those scoundrels attempted anything, I could have cut them both to piecemeal. Just because you managed to blind them with magic first doesn’t make you a hero.”

Geralt snorted and moved closer into her space. “So, you’d rather murder both of them instead of letting me handle it without spilling any blood? This is exactly why I can’t stand you.”

“Then go!” she snarled. “I don’t need you!”

“I’d love to go,” he said. “Unfortunately, I have to herd a spoiled, blood-thirsty princess back home first.”

Her hand flew at his face and only his witcher reflexes allowed him to catch her wrist before it struck. Even so, his arm strained to stop her blow. This was not the flimsy, dramatic slap of a simpering lady, but the strike of a fighter. He was reminded again that she was dangerous in more ways than one.

She struggled briefly to pull her hand back, but it was more for show than anything. Her eyes were hot on his as he held her trapped wrist. “You want to punish me?” she asked, low and rough.

“I think you’d enjoy it too much,” he growled, and a treacherous part of him heated at the intake of her breath and the heave of her chest.

“And you wouldn’t?” she asked, looking up at him like a hungry bruxa in the night.

He paused, wondering. Here was another peril she laid before him, another spiky trap. But it was tempting. She was attractive, bored, bound by social expectations, and clearly desperate for illicit excitement.

“Another way to blow off steam?” he asked, watching her face as he ran his thumb over the pulse-point on her wrist.

“A way to blow something,” she said, lounging back against the pillar with a sharpened smirk.

For a moment, he pictured her kneeling before him on the dirty ground, sucking him off eagerly as he fucked her flawless, aristocratic face. He saw her licking her lips after, like a satisfied cat. He wondered if she’d brought other men here to have her fun. It didn’t really matter.

He dropped her wrist and let her hand fall away. “What do you want?” he asked bluntly.

She looked confused for a moment. Then the haughty smile returned as she straightened and swaggered toward him. Her hand ran down his chest armor, over his stomach and down between his legs. “I’ve heard stories of witchers, you know.”

“Like what?” he asked, not taking his eyes off hers.

Her fingers traced the seam of his trousers before her palm settled to cup him. “Stamina of race horses, endowment of gods, the most coveted lovers in the land.”

“I think you’ve been listening to too many of Dandelion’s stories,” Geralt said dryly. “And race horses are known for bursts of speed, not stamina.”

She snickered and squeezed him. He couldn’t control the reflexive surge of arousal. He reached down and grabbed her ass roughly in both hands. She gasped and surged into him, breasts pressing into his chest.

“You’re very bad, you know that?” he said. “I ought to teach you another lesson.”

Her lips curled back from a sharp smile. “Don’t hold back this time,” she ordered huskily.

“You want a hard one?” he asked, mouth hovering near hers.

She groaned and her hands scrambled to his belt. But he knocked them aside and pushed her back firmly. She gave him a puzzled, annoyed look.

“Go face that pillar,” he ordered.

She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head, studying him as if expecting a jest. Finally, she seemed to concede, walking to the pillar with a huffed breath of condescension. She stood before the pillar with a loose, bored posture. “Are you putting me in a corner like a naughty child?”

“You’re not a child,” Geralt said, walking up to her. He admired the slim, strong line of her back. “But you certainly act like one sometimes.”

Before she could turn and give him a retort, he smacked her on the ass. Not a hard blow, but fast and sudden enough to startle her and make her jolt forward. She half turned, looking at him with astonishment.

“Face forward,” he said, raising his hand again. She met his eyes with a hint of a challenge, but she turned back around and rested her palms against the pillar, lifting her ass to him. He could see the tremor of excited anticipation run through her as she waited for the next blow.

He spanked her hard this time—one cheek and then the other. They were firm and round and bounced against the curve of his palm. Rosa gasped and jerked forward. When he rubbed his palm over the places he’d struck, she whimpered a little.

“Have you had enough?” he asked her softly.

“No,” she moaned. “I need more.”

His hands slid up to her hips and his thumbs hooked over the waistband of her red leggings. He pulled down the seat of the leggings in one smooth motion, yanking them down to her knees. They bunched above her long brown boots. The length of her quilted tunic partially covered her bottom, so he lifted it and tucked it into the belt that crossed over her lower ribs. Her reddened, smooth buttocks peeked out at him, flexing and pushing into his touch.

Rosa made a hungry, impatient sound. He slapped her rear again, spanking her gently at first before gradually increasing his force. She moaned and squirmed. Then, after a particularly hard strike, she cried out and stiffened. He stopped and stroked her lower back. “Too much?” he asked, admiring the rosy glow of her tender skin.

“No,” she said, voice hoarse. “But I wish for you to ravish me now.”

“Is that right?” Geralt purred. He nudged her legs apart and she took a wider stance, thighs open.

Geralt slid his hand over the curve of her hip to her front. The coarse hair of her pelvis brushed his fingers and Rosa gave a murmur of pleasure and rocked down into his touch. Geralt petted her there for a moment before searching out the nub of her clit covered by the top of her folds. He rubbed her gently and softly, which made her sigh with contentment, but he knew she wouldn’t get off on tender touches.

He massaged her steadily, increasing the pressure and speed. The vibration and friction made her whine and strain against his fingers. The muscles in her thighs and ass all contracted, tight as springs. He kept up the rapid, relentless pressure, kneading her there until she was screaming and bucking against him.

He held her there, then cupped her with his whole hand, letting her rock slowly into it for all the little aftershocks. She moaned weakly. Her cunt was hot and slick in his hand. He could feel the thunder of her pulse.

She laughed softly. “No one’s ever done that to me before,” she said with an air of awe. “I didn’t think men even knew how to do that.”

“You’ve been spending time with the wrong men,” Geralt said. He squeezed her gently again and she sighed and curled back into him.

“Are you going to finally give it to me?” she asked silkily. “Do I finally get to see what’s in your trousers?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Geralt said. There, he caressed her slowly, pressing the heel of his hand against her wet folds. Smoothly, he eased his hand away and slid it over the curve of her hip, the rise of her buttock, and back between her legs. He grazed the ridge of her parted folds before abruptly plunging two fingers into her cunt.

Rosa yelped and gasped, body arching into the pillar. There, she groaned deeply and squeezed around his fingers with helpless hunger. “Oh, please,” she said.

“Please, what?” he said, working his fingers into her with hard jerks. She was scorching hot and slippery to his touch.

Her head fell forward and she closed her eyes. “Oh,” she said sharply, “Oh, oh.”

He fucked her like that for a while, crooking his fingers to rub her inner walls and find the places that made her squeak and writhe. Her slick seeped out of her his fingers made a squelching sound thrusting into her. When he added a third digit, stuffing her full, he knew it had to hurt, but she just opened her legs wider and urged him deeper.

His other hand lifted to her left breast. The thick fabric of her tunic covered it, but it was warm and heavy in his palm. When he squeezed and rolled the soft mound, she gave a high, long cry and pulsed around his fingers, her slick running out over his hand and down his wrist.

Dropping his left hand to her clit, he rubbed her to another wild, shaking orgasm as his other hand fucked her pussy.

Her wails of ecstasy echoed off the underside of the bridge. Geralt wondered how many people were listening to them right now and if any dared peer into the darkness under the bridge to get a show. It amused him to think that Rosa var Attre, highborn daughter of an imperial diplomat, might have an audience of townsfolk for her rough pleasures. It’d probably just turn her on more, the kinky brat, he thought.

As Rosa groaned and sagged against the pillar, still gasping for breath and control, he withdrew his hands and wiped them on the back of her tunic. Then he backed away, making a show of straightening his armor.

Gradually, Rosa seemed to come back into herself. She straightened and looked back over her shoulder at him, waiting. Her face was dark with the flush of hot blood and her mouth was half-open. Her eyes took in his distance and the fact that all of his clothes were still in place.

“You’re not going to…” she started to say before realization twisted her face with anger.

Geralt smiled. “And take what your noble husband will so proudly claim on your wedding night? I wouldn’t think of doing such a thing to a gentle lady.”

Rosa snorted, pushing herself off the pillar. “You’re far too honorable, sir.”

Geralt shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t really feel up to any ravishing tonight.”

In actuality, his cock was pushing against the front of his trousers in protest, but it was too dark for her to see it, and he wasn’t about to let her know the effect she had on him.

She turned slowly and stiffly to face him. “I suppose you think you’ve taught me a lesson. You can stop deluding yourself. I only got what I wanted.”

“I don’t doubt that you did,” Geralt said.

Rosa huffed and started to pull up her leggings. The insides of her legs were glistening with liquid.

“Need a handkerchief?” Geralt asked. “I may have some linen in my pack.”

“I believe you’ve given me enough assistance for the day,” Rosa said in a clipped tone, yanking her leggings up and over her hips with some difficulty. The drape of her tunic and the dark of the night would hide any wet marks. He just hoped for her sake that she wouldn’t encounter any keen noses on her way back to her room. She was fragrant with the scent of female arousal.

Rosa strode past him, head held high and left the cover of the bridge for the stairs to the street. “I’ll have you know that I was in no way taken with you, and only did this to amuse myself,” she told him loudly, still facing away from him.

“I imagine that’s the only reason you ever do anything,” Geralt said dryly, following her.

This time, he trailed behind her instead of attempting to walk abreast. Her stride was quick but stiff and he wondered how sore she was, if she’d wake up with his touch lingering inside her the next day.

It was a long, silent walk back to the north side of town. Geralt gave Rosa her distance but kept her in sight, carefully scanning for threats the entire way. When they finally reached the manicured courtyard of the var Attre residence, Rosa stopped and turned to send him a final sneer. “Run away now, witcher. I’m done with you.”

“Excellent,” Geralt murmured. “I hope I can safely assume that we’ll never see each other after this?”

Rosa gave a short, dry laugh. “Your tutelage will not be required again.”

Standing there in the soft glow of the lanterns, sword strapped to her side, she was still a princess and a fighter. She still had her dignity and her damnable pride. He supposed he should be glad for that, but mostly he was just bitter, thinking of what could have been. He’d seen a wild spark in her that intrigued him, just before he discovered just how cold she could burn. It was the icy flame of Nilfgaard, devouring all in its path.

Lowering his shoulders, he turned and left the bright lights of the wealthy neighborhood to sink back into the narrow streets of Novigrad’s night--cool and dark and free of complications. Soon he’d find a place to drink and a friendly face to while away the night with and forget all the tangled troubles of duels by the bridge.


	7. Hunters (Mislav)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you all enjoying the new Netflix show? I'm getting some serious Geralt/Jaskier(Dandelion) vibes! I'd planned to write a Geralt/Dandelion/Priscilla threesome for this fic, but now I'm tempted to write something for those two stupid boys first.
> 
> Well, this story took a while to complete and it's a little darker than the others. I was disheartened that Mislav, the first sympathetic canonically gay man in the witcher games (ugh, Dethmold), had a depressing "bury your gays" backstory. He deserves some comfort and love.
> 
> CW: suicide, grief, implied homophobia

**Hunters**

_“I’m a freak too.”_

Mislav runs the words over in his mind as he skins the dead dogs. Starved and wild, they don’t have much meat on their long bones, but every morsel will be eagerly devoured by the hungry peasants, scrabbling out an existence in the shadow of the war. Last time he was in town, he saw women boiling scraps of old leather to eke out a meal.

The witcher took out the wild dogs with practiced ease, alternating between blasts of magic fire from his palm and swift cuts from his long steel sword. Mislav still isn’t sure why he told the witcher what happened those many years ago. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing Dieter’s face, so much older and streaked with blood. He’d thought of killing Dieter many times, but seeing him dead brought no relief.

The witcher seemed sympathetic to his revelation of past events, or at least he hadn’t recoiled, which was a small mercy. Mislav hopes his hunt goes well, though he knows a fully-grown griffin is force he’d never match himself against. _“Not the first griffin I’ve dealt with,”_ the witcher said with casual confidence. Mislav wonders it’s simply part of his mutations, this lack of fear.

He cleans his knife on the grass, looks at the smeared surface of the blade, then stabs it into the earth.

The estate on the hill overlooked the sandy bars of the river. In the morning, the slow, shallow water turned to sheets of molten gold rippling over rumpled wet sand. Mislav never tired of watching riders canter through it, their steeds throwing up sprays of glittering water. Dieter, the stable hand, loved to run the horses through it whenever he exercised them, despite the lord’s warning that they could slip on hidden rocks.

The local children didn’t need horses to enjoy splashing in the shadows. In the summer, they spent every free moment there. Mislav remembered doing the same, when he was that age. Now he only watched from afar. A path led along the riverbanks weaving through tall grass and horsetail fern and clusters of wildflowers. Pheasants and partridges liked the grassy heights and he liked to catch a few in the evenings when they were easy to startle. If he couldn’t find a deer in the forest and the traps were empty of wolves and foxes, he could usually find a bird or rabbit in the fields along the rover, where the tall, thick grass grew.

It was there that he came upon Florian huddled in a hollow of flattened grass. At first, Mislav thought he might be a bear cub, the top of his brown head poking up through the gaps in the waving grass. He froze. But then he saw the edge of a pink ear emerging from the wind-blown hair and he let out his held breath.

When he approached, Florian started and slammed shut the book on his lap. His green-brown eyes met Mislav’s warily. It cast a feeling of dismay through Mislav. Four years ago, they had splashed in the shallows together, teased the hounds, and filled saddlebags with acorns. They’d raced across this very field, whooping and shouting. They’d played hide-and-seek in the grass. That was before Florian was sent away to Oxenfurt to foster with an ally. It was before Mislav’s father had slipped and fallen in the icy gully and sent the broken shaft of his leg bone through his skin. From that day on, he’d never recovered his stride and Mislav had taken on his duties as the lord’s hunter.

Florian had returned his father’s estate, taller but still skinny as a rail, all angles of spindly arms and sharp cheekbones. He’d never been a hearty eater and it seemed the food of the city hadn’t agreed with him. Mislav had worried when he first saw Florian’s spare frame. He’d decided to roast some spring hares and wild turkeys the way that Florian liked them.

Looking at Florian curled up in the grass now, Mislav, moved to him and crouched by his side. The pungent scent of the river floated up on the wind. “You don’t need to hide your writing from me,” he said quietly to Florian. “For certain, you know I can’t read.”

Florian’s face, already reddened by the wind, turned even pinker. “I wasn’t hiding it,” he lied.

“Writing to your friends in Oxenfurt?”

Florian shook his head. “Writing my thoughts.” His lips were chapped and cracked. He had a wide freckle near the corner of his mouth like a beauty mark.

Mislav watched him, trying not to show how he was studying him. The summer before Florian left, they had come here to lie in the grass and look up at the hot blue sky and listen to the grasshoppers, and gently touch their hands and their mouths to each other. They had said they were practicing for the girls at the midsummer festival, but Mislav hadn’t thinking about girls when he kissed Florian. Every time he came there after that summer, the scent of Florian’s sweat and the slick heat of his mouth came back to him. They hadn’t dared to do anything more than that—just two foolish lads touching in the shelter of the grass.

Now crouched next to him in the cool green spring growth, the memory of those hot days was like a golden dream that had never really happened. He didn’t say anything, just stayed there, gaze flickering between Florian’s flushed face and the rustling grasses around them. A gull called out harsh and insistent.

Mislav tore a sprig of grass from the ground and slowly shredded it between his fingers. “I should get back to the hunt.”

“You should,” Florian said softly. “There’s nothing here.”

“There’s you,” Mislav said, with more ferocity that he’d meant. “I’d bide time with you. But I see you don’t wish that.”

Florian hunched his shoulders. “I do wish it, but I shouldn’t.”

“Why ever not?” Mislav demanded. He flung the bits of torn grass from his hands. His fingernails and fingertips were stained green. “I thought you’d be happy to see me again, but you’ve been sulking like a weaned calf.”

Florian looked into his eyes for the first time since he’d first approached. “Are you happy, Mislav?”

Mislav struggled with this question. “I have a good position. I do well enough.”

Florian nodded. “You’ve done very well for yourself. Father says you bring in as much game as your father did in his prime. You’ve gotten big and…muscular.” His eyes darted away again. “You’re a man now, aren’t you? You’ll soon be looking for a wife.”

Mislav was confounded. “Perhaps,” he said unsteadily. “I haven’t considered.”

“Well you should.” Florian tapped the book against his knees for emphasis. “We can’t pretend to be children anymore, rolling and tumbling around. I suppose that’s what’s made me sad. Remembering. Thinking about days past.”

“Remembering what?” Mislav asked, rolling onto his knees to get a little closer.

“Oh don’t,” Florian ordered, looking cross suddenly. “I’m not the little one you can tease. I won’t play those follies anymore.”

“Follies?” Mislav said, leaning toward him. Florian smelled like crushed grass and fresh linen. His face was a galaxy of freckles. His chapped lips parted.

Mislav slid his hand over Florian’s elbow and pressed there lightly at the soft, vulnerable crook of his arm. Florian made a breathless sound. His eyes moved rapidly from Mislav’s grip to his face. Then he looked away for a long moment, with pleading eyes, to nowhere at all.

Slowly, Florian’s body seemed to turn against his will, shifting into Mislav’s heavier form. His other arm moved up to sling around Mislav’s neck and pull his face down. Their noses brushed and they both breathed in suddenly, inhaling each other’s breath.

“You make me very foolish,” Florian said quietly.

Mislav tilted his head and kissed him, careful and deliberate. He didn’t want to frighten Florian or overpower him. Florian wrapped his other arm over Mislav’s shoulders and pulled him down. They both fell to the ground and the grass rose up around them like a towering forest. Florian’s arms had a wiry strength, pressing Mislav’s body into his.

Their mouths mashed together with a sudden frantic hunger. It was as though they could not get close enough to each other, even tangled together on the earth itself. Florian’s hips pressed up into Mislav’s, making him desperate for more contact, for bare skin. He pulled at the open collar of Florian’s tunic and attached the pale skin there, dragging his tongue and teeth over Florian’s throat and shoulder down to his collarbone.

Florian babbled something between his gasping breaths, and used his own hands to tug at Mislav’s breeches. Somehow, after much tangled tussling and pawing, they managed to get enough clothes off to rub bare skin together and revel in the glorious sensation.

They rolled into each other and shifted and stroked until Florian got impatient and forced Mislav onto his back. Sitting astride his hips, he spat in his palm and rubbed their eager pricks together in a rough, hard rhythm that soon had them both spilling…all over Mislav’s belly.

Mislav laughed breathlessly and pulled Florian down for another long kiss.

They cleaned up as best they could with handfuls of grass, then slid down the steep riverbank to splash in the water, as though they were children again.

Mislav didn’t kill any deer that day, but when he delivered a pair of skinned hares to the cook, he was glowing with victory nonetheless.

There was a cave under the riverbank where floodwaters had eroded the soil and left a shallow, rocky cavern. In their younger days, they had hidden toys and treasure there—colorful rocks and bleached animal bones and a rusty dagger. At some point, the high water had washed many of the trinkets away. In fact, the cave was usually damp, and after a heavy rain the river ran into it. But it was secret and hidden and they could stand in it or perch on a large rock in the back and kiss and caress for hours. Florian loved to side astride Mislav’s lap and rock into him until they were both sweating and groaning and aching for release. Afterwards, they could always rinse off in the water.

Their other favorite place, a bit more of a walk, was the hollow of a huge oak tree deep in the forest. Mislav’s father had pointed it out to him as a fine spot to shelter from harsh weather. All he had to do was tie a bedroll to his pack and lead Florian down the deer trails to the secret resting place on dry leaves and accumulated duff. Even after a storm, it was dry there. They could lay out the bedding, shed their clothes and tangle their bodies together under the wide, dark canopy of leaves. Florian loved to skate his fingers over Mislav’s shoulders, down his sides, to his thick thighs where he gripped and kneaded the muscles. He loved to touch every part of Mislav. He sucked Mislav’s prick into his mouth and bobbed on it as though it were his favorite task, as though he were the one being pleasured. And when they realized they could position their bodies to suck each other at the same time, it felt like newly-discovered magic.

Lying together afterward, with only the sound of their breaths and hearts and the calls of the birds, a deep lake of peace and happiness flowed over Mislav. He watched the slant of the sunbeams so he could rouse Florian when it was time to get up and at least put on the semblance of hunting.

Not all the days were golden and carefree. Florian’s father refused to let him leave the hold some afternoons, keeping him to the duties of the estate. After those times, Florian was silent and withdrawn for hours. Occasionally he had bruises on his wrist or his cheekbones.

The lord was not a kind man, Mislav knew. His father always told him that Ignatius could be generous to those in his service who proved loyal and efficient, but he could turn like cornered boar when he felt wronged. In those moments, it was best to disappear until his anger abated. Florian didn’t like to talk about it, but he often said things like, “You are my only solace,” or “I couldn’t abide this place without you.” It warmed Mislav’s chest and made him want to tuck Florian in his arms and hide him away from all the thorns of the world.

When they didn’t have time to get away to one of their secret places, they met in the stables and talked quietly for fear of Dieter carrying tales. It didn’t stop Dieter from trying to creep into their conversations, but Florian didn’t seem to mind, so Mislav tolerated his inane interjections. In truth, it was pleasing to sit and gossip with Florian and the stable hand about the goings on in the village—who had fathered Gerta’s baby, what had killed Yorven’s pig, whether the milkmaid was a true witch, and whether the miller’s widow was stepping out with the grave digger.

One evening, returning from the traps with fresh fox skin draped over his shoulder, Mislav met Dieter stomping up the path, face red and wet with tears.

“Ho,” Mislav called out, “What’s happen, then, Dieter?”

Dieter shook his head violently. “I’ve been thrown out,” he said, voice thick and rough. “I must leave in the morning with no wages at all.”

Mislav frowned. “Did you injure one of the horses?”

Dieter scowled. “Stupid beast stumbled and fell. It was naught to do with me. I near cracked my head open, but I’m the one to blame, they say.”

“Poor luck,” Mislav said, although he knew Dieter had probably run the horse though the shallows, despite the stablemaster’s warnings. “Are you going to your kin in Velen? Do you need a place to spend the night?”

Dieter scrubbed his arm over his wet face. “No, I’m leaving now, not spending another moment here in this wretched place.” And he stormed away.

That night, the lord hosted a feast for guests from Oxenfurt and the music and voices from the red-brick hall filled the night. Mislav prowled around the gardens, smelling the night-blooming jasmine and honeysuckle. Finally, he returned to the stables and climbed into the loft where the fragrant hay was piled in drifts of gold. There he waited for the familiar form of his beloved.

After some time, Florian’s brown hair bobbed up to the top of the ladder and he climbed into the loft with a soft giggle. He crawled to where Mislav was sprawled and they grinned at each other. Mislav could see that Florian had been drinking and the sloppy kiss he gave him confirmed it. Florian tasted of sweet mead and spices. He moaned into Mislav’s mouth and starting fumbling for the ties on his breeches.

“Here?” Mislav said with a note of amusement. “You’ll have to be quieter than you usually are.”

Florian shook his head slowly. “Dieter’s gone. He fled this afternoon.”

“I know,” Mislav said, trying to unbuckle the belt around Florian’s tunic. “Rather harsh to cast him out so suddenly.”

“He broke the leg of Master Ander’s favorite mare,” Florian said. “Father really had no choice. Dieter’s lucky he didn’t get a whipping too.”

“So that’s why he left so early,” Mislav surmised.

“Aye.” Florian managed to loosen enough laces to get Mislav’s prick out. He rubbed it with his firm, lovely fingers until all thoughts of Dieter had fled Mislav’s mind.

Clothes pulled half-off they rolled together in the dried grass, blindly kissing, licking, sucking any available skin. Florian fit his cock into the hollow of Mislav’s hip and thrust there frantically as Mislav clawed at his back, his own stand sliding against Florian’s belly. When Florian at last shuddered and emptied his seed between them, he rested on Mislav for a minute, panting while Mislav stroked his shoulders and back. They kissed deeply and messily again and Mislav rubbed up into Florian, trying to find friction. Florian chuckled into his mouth, then raised himself up on his hands and slid down Mislav’s body. He closed his lips around Mislav’s hungry prick and gave him a long, slow pleasuring that had Mislav twisting and thrashing in the straw, trying to stifle the sounds coming out of his throat.

When the crashing flood of his breaking point hit him, he covered his mouth to stop the shout of joy. Florian licked him clean, then sat back on his heels, smiling like a fool.

“Come here,” Mislav said.

But Florian just sat there, beaming and looking at him with a kind of warm, hooded scrutiny.

Mislav pushed himself up to his elbows and leaned forward to grab Florian’s sleeve and urge him close again. He wrapped his arms around Florian’s back and rested his head on Florian’s bare shoulder, sucking in his scent and the feel of his skin.

It was all perfect bliss there…until he saw the face poking above the top of the ladder—Dieter’s shock of wild red hair and his bony features. His mouth hung open with amazement and his eyes were as wide as plums. Then his head disappeared below and he was gone.

Mislav’s arms tightened around Florian, eliciting a yelp of pain.

“I know you love me, but that hurts,” Florian protested.

Mislav released his hold and pulled back to look Florian in the face. “Dieter saw us,” he said in a whisper.

Florian’s face tightened. “He’s our friend. He won’t say anything.”

Mislav prayed that he was right. But he knew Dieter tended to gossip about other people’s faults to make himself look better in comparison. If he thought he could win his position back by spilling secrets, he wouldn’t hesitate to doom them both.

When Mislav returned to the hut he shared with his father on the far side of the village, it was the early hours of the morning. He didn’t expect his father to be up, but the man was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he had been summoned to the hall to help clean up after the feast.

Mislav sat on his cot and considered his options. Could he convince Florian to leave the estate and run far away together? There was nowhere they could truly be safe, but they could escape this prickly trap at least. If Florian’s father found out, one or both of them would get a whipping for sure.

Stewing in fears, Mislav began to fill a pack for a longer journey. He strapped his bedroll onto it. It always brought thoughts of lovemaking with Florian now. He stroked the worn edge of the fabric.

The door opened swiftly and his father entered, face creased with pain. “Mislav, leave now, quickly as you can.”

Mislav stared at his father—the watery blue eyes and white-streaked hair and the scar on his chin.

“Did you not hear me?” his father demanded. “The lord wants your head. I’ve been sent to fetch you. I’ll tell him I disowned you and you fled into the forest. They won’t find you there. You know all the ways.”

Mislav gripped the strap of his pack. “What of Florian? What will they do to him?”

His father snorted. “He’s the son of a lord; he’ll survive.” His eyes pinned Mislav with a chill glare. “Of all the lads you could fiddle with, you chose a lordling, of course.” He shook his head wearily. “Go now before they send the guards!”

Mislav nodded, throat tight. He stood and pulled his pack onto his back. “Tell Florian—”

“Leave!” His father bellowed. “Creep back here after a week, in the dark, and I will tell you how matters stand.”

Mislav spent the remainder of the night and the following day holed up under the old oak tree. A part of him hoped that Florian would find him there. But the day passed with no sign of him. No doubt his father would not suffer him to leave the red brick walls of the hold. Mislav paced and rocked and kicked at the dry leaves. He thought of Florian’s blank, tense face in the aftermath of hours in his father’s presence. He knew the lord berated and hurt Florian even when he complied. What would he do when he learned of their trysting?

He punched the tree a few times, imagining Dieter’s bony face, but it only made his knuckles throb and burn with pain.

Finally, hours into another sleepless night, he made his way back through the forest, under the light of the near-full moon, tracking the thin slips of trails to the borders of the estate. The brightness of the moon made stealth difficult, but he slipped silently from shadow to shadow and found his way to the walls of the hold. There was a light in Florian’s room.

When they were children, Mislav had climbed up the wall, small feet finding holds in the gaps between the bricks. Now he was too big for such feats. But he knew that the steward stored a long ladder with the fruit picking poles under the stairs. After some fumbling and stumbling, he dragged the heavy ladder to the wall and extended it carefully. Praying that the latches would hold, he scaled the ladder and scrambled over the ledge into Florian’s room as silently as he could.

Unfortunately, the sound of his feet hitting the floor woke the woman sitting in the corner. She stared at him under the shadow of her wimple, her lined face heavy, her eyes reddened. It was Florian’s old nurse. They stared at each other across the expanse of Florian’s bed and Mislav felt his heart fall.

A white sheet covered Florian where he lay stretched across the bed, even over his face. The heels of his boots poked out the bottom. Mislav couldn’t put together the pieces of the room—the candles in dishes set on the floor at the four corners of the bed, the wreath of flowers on Florian’s chest, the old woman in her chair in the corner.

“You weren’t to return,” she said softly.

Mislav couldn’t think. He was frozen, half crouched, hands clenched.

The nurse spread her hands over her knees. “He had a fit of apoplexy. The priest could not revive him.”

Mislav stood then. He somehow thought he was trapped in a dream and the woman would change into a laughing gnome and Florian would disintegrate into a heap of flowers and he’d wake under the oak tree in the cold night.

He stumbled to the bed and lifted the sheet, eliciting a fearful gasp from the nurse. He didn’t know what exactly he expected to see, but it wasn’t this—Florian’s swollen face, blueish gray and purple. A ring of deep bruises encircled his throat under his jaw.

“They hanged him,” Mislav said blankly.

The nurse said nothing. He supposed she was crying, from the sounds she was making. Stiffly, he pulled the sheet up over Florian’s head again, covering him. He thought he ought to kiss him once more, but his stomach was roiling and his head was thick with dizzy confusion. He looked at the woman again for some sign of what he ought to do, a condolence, an answer.

He saw her eyes dart briefly up to the ceiling where a rough wood beam stretched across the room. A quartet of iron lamps hung from it. In the solstice, they wound green garlands around it and the whole room smelled of cedar and holly. He imagined the nurse, or some servant—imagined himself—entering and seeing the body hanging there like a butchered deer draining blood, heavy and empty.

“Fuck,” he said softly. His head was as hot as a furnace. “Fucking hell.” He looked blindly at the covered corpse on the bed. He wanted to strike it. “You should have waited. I was coming back, you infernal fool!” Stinging tears blurred his eyes and he scrubbed them away with harsh force.

The nurse covered her face and gave a low wail. Mislav drew in a deep, burning breath. He had to leave, he knew. There was nothing here. Not even a note. Florian knew he couldn’t read. He should say a goodbye, but he was sick and stumbling and thick in the head.

He scrambled back onto the window ledge and looked down. The ground far below was blue-white in the light of the moon. It was beautiful, swaying and rolling in his vision. He touched the top of the ladder. It could fall any moment. He swung down onto the third rung. It shifted, but didn’t slide away. He climbed all the way down, the rungs biting into his palms, and at the bottom, he set his feet on the ground.

The cool night air soothed his aching head. But it could do nothing for his heart, writhing and shriveling like a leaf in the fire of his chest.

In his little hut, Mislav crouches before the flames of his little hearth and stirs the stew in its battered pot. It’s venison and starchy tubers and wild greens. The golden shimmer of fat rises to the top. He sprinkles some herbs in and waits for the tubers to soften.

A knock on the door startles him out of his bleak reverie and he rises to his feet. It’s the witcher with a smudge of dirt on his face, clothes dusty, blood on his hardened leather armor. Behind him, his horse is waiting—a chestnut mare with the gory head of a griffin hanging from her saddle.

“I wanted to thank you for your help,” the witcher says. He pulls a long, elegant bow off his back and offers it to Mislav. “I picked this off one of the dead soldiers. They killed the griffin’s mate while she was sleeping so he took his revenge and killed them all.”

Mislav studies the bow, admiring its quality with longing. “You’re very kind, but if the Black Ones catch me with gear from a dead Nilfgaardian soldier, they’ll string me up.” His voice catches on the words. The bodies of traitors and thieves hang so often along the roads these days, he should be inoculated to the memories of that night in the keep, but he always finds himself falling back there.

“All right,” the witcher says, “How can I repay you? I don’t have a lot of coin right now, but after I collect this bounty I can come back.”

Mislav shakes his head. “I only pointed you in the right direction.”

A moment passes then when they are both watching each other and Mislav thinks the witcher should turn and leave or he should turn and shut the door, but neither moves. Finally, he asks, “Do you have any salt? I’m making a stew.”

“No,” the witcher says. “But I have peppercorns.”

After that, it’s easy to invite him to stay, share the stew, and sit by the fire talking of the hunt. A royal griffin, the witcher tells him, driven to a murderous rage by the killing of his mate. The witcher shows him the oil he used on his blade to get an edge on the griffin and the crossbow he shot to bring it out of the sky. Mislav examines it and tells him to get better bolts for future hunts.

After they finish the peppery stew, the witcher pulls honeycomb wrapped in leaves out of his pack and they enjoy the sweet treat together. The fire is starting to sink into low coals. Mislav licks the honey of his fingers and looks into the red glow, overly aware of the witcher on the low bench next to him. He still notices men, of course, but it’s been years since he felt the pull of pathetic hope that one might return his desire.

“Stay here tonight,” he says without looking at the witcher. “There are too many wolves and wild dogs roaming the forest at night.”

“It’s not necessary; I have good night vision,” the witcher says. “But if you want me to stay, I will.” There’s something in the low timbre of his voice that makes Mislav fight against a shiver of heat. He inhales slowly, still afraid to look at the other man.

“Do you want to lie down?” the witcher says.

Mislav nods carefully. He takes off his boots and his heavy jerkin and lies down on the pile of furs, leaving room for another. His arms are straight against his sides. He looks up at the witcher who is removing his own outer clothing. Under his armor he wears a thin white shirt and loose undershorts. His bared arms are corded with muscle and his powerful thighs are like tree trunks. A warrior, Mislav thinks, a hunter.

The witcher kneels on the furs beside him and studies him for a moment, yellow eyes unreadable. He reaches down with one hand and runs his fingers up the side of Mislav’s jaw. “Have you had any companions since this lord’s son?”

Mislav shakes his head. “A secret fumble here and there. But no one can risk being caught.”

The witcher nods. “It’s a hard life out here in the countryside. You should move to Oxenfurt or Novigrad.”

“No need for hunters in the city,” Mislav says, “And no place for an uneducated man past his prime. It’s alright. I don’t need love any more. That part of my life is long over.”

The witcher’s fingers go to the buttons of Mislav’s shirt. “Tell me about him.”

Pressure clamps tight in Mislav’s chest. Is it betrayal to speak of Florian here in bed with another man? He takes a long breath. “We were just lads, but he was my best friend. Only, when we grew older, we had to be different people. It was always harder for him, I think. When he thought I’d left forever, he made a terrible choice. Most likely his father’s words drove him to it. There’s nothing like feeling caught in a trap, feeling you’d gnaw off your own leg and bleed to death for escape.”

“Sounds like the father suffered as well, drinking himself to death and losing everything,” the witcher says.

Mislav scowls. “He deserved it. What he did to Florian was only a portion of his crimes.”

“I’ve seen the estate,” the witcher says. “Everything he owned is now crumbled red brick.” He parts the shirt, brushing the tips of his fingers against Mislav’s sides.

“An earthquake struck some years ago,” Mislav said. “The bridge and the keep were already is disrepair. They’re all ruins now.” It’s hard to see the witcher’s face in the dim hut. The edges of his loose white hair are outlines in the soft light of the coals.

“And war has burned down the rest,” the witcher finishes. He pulls his undershirt over his head to show the pink stripes of old wounds on his hairless chest. He lies down on the furs next to Mislav and they listen to the popping of the coals in the low fire.

“Those days are so bright in my mind,” Mislav says. “I try to dwell only on the times before the end—by the river and in the green summer forest. Everything is stained with pain, but those days will always have a sweetness.”

The witcher takes his hand, thumb caressing his knuckles. Mislav wants to bury his face in the witcher’s chest and weep, but he just lies there and looks at the red glow of light on the rafters of the hut. It’s warm here, and comforting to feel the presence of another lying next to him, listen to the slow rhythm of their breaths.

The wind is shaking the boughs of the trees outside. The rustling leaves sound like rain or a crashing tide. The sensation of time roaring past him washes away the wary hesitation keeping him there on his back, on the furs, unmoving. The sharp urge to feel moves through him with a cold shock like fear and the lack of fear. He rolls on his side toward the witcher, slots his leg between the witcher’s thighs. His face brushes against the witcher’s and the other man turns his head and opens his mouth to Mislav’s.

It’s been a thousand years since he’s been kissed. His lips are clumsy but eager for pressure and touch. The slide of their teeth and tongues and the witcher’s soft grunt sets Mislav’s flesh on fire. He’s forgotten how good this can be—the breath and bulk and force of another against him. The witcher shifts into him and throws his leg over Mislav’s hip to bring them even closer together. His manhood is hardening in his thin shorts and it presses into Mislav’s. They both gasp at the contact.

The witcher rolls Mislav down on his back again, covers him with his heavy body. It’s a strange kind of safety being pressed into the furs, held by his weight. They kiss thoroughly and hungrily. Mislav pushes his fingers into the witcher’s long pale hair. It’s warm and smooth to his touch, slipping between his knuckles.

The witcher lifts and moves down his body, kissing hot wet patches down his chest, nuzzling the thick hair there. He licks the line of Mislav’s ribcage down to his belly. His strong, sure hands are already easing Mislav’s trousers off his hips. Mislav shifts and lifts his buttocks so he can get them off. But he thinks then of Florian’s freckled frame leaning over him, filled with an easy happiness. His muscles stiffen.

The witcher’s face tilts up to look at him and Mislav wonders how much he can see. “Just let me give you a bit of comfort,” the witcher says in that low, rumbling voice. “I can’t be him, but I can be here, tonight, if you let me.”

Mislav’s tongue is thick in his mouth. “Yes,” he says roughly, chest tightening again.

The witcher’s hand moves to grip Mislav’s prick with a gentle strength. He strokes it once, sending a wave of pleasure through Mislav. Then he lowers his head and circles his tongue over it with firm, wet strokes. Mislav clenches his thighs and buttocks to keep from thrusting up. Heat spreads from his groin up his belly and spine. He opens his mouth and draws in great breaths of air.

The witcher sucks on the head of his prick then presses down to engulf it completely. Mislav bites his lip and throws his head back. He can feel the witcher’s fingers brushing down behind his balls to the sensitive skin there. He rubs as he sucks, sending unexpected shocks of pleasure through Mislav. With the heat and pressure of the witcher’s mouth, the swirl of his tongue and the scrape of his teeth he sends Mislav into a shuddering frenzy of joy.

Out of his head, he lives in the prickling of beard on his thighs and the fingers on his backside and the sweet core of sensation on his prick—a mouth with a singular focus. He can’t endure it, and his body bucks into primal rhythms of hunting pleasure to its shattering conclusion. From there it’s a swift, blazing fall into oblivion without thought.

His release brings him slowly back to himself, to his sweaty body on the furs, to the witcher lifting off him to crawl back up his body and drape over him again, a comforting weight of skin and muscle and bones. His manhood is thick between them and Mislav reaches down to palm his buttocks, still covered. The witcher sighs and shifts against him. “You don’t have to,” he says.

“I know,” Mislav replies softly. His thumbs hook over the waistband of the shorts and he tugs at it until the witcher lifts his hips and they are able to wrestle the shorts off. They lie down on their sides again, pressed close. Mislav licks his own palm—then the witcher licks it as well, tongue tracing up each of his fingers. Mislav reaches down between them and strokes the witcher’s hot, silky cock for a long time, finding the pressure and speed that makes him breathe harder and buck into his grip. The smell of earth and blood and grass is on him. The night is silent except for the yips of distant foxes and the wind shaking the trees.

The blissful heat pooling between them, the slide of their damp skin—it all transports Mislav back to the worn red bedroll under the shaded canopy of the oak and the thin, lovely boy stretched over him. His hands were fervent in their worship, his eyes bright with devotion. His voice was saying Mislav’s name again and again, like a prayer.


	8. Poetic License (Dandelion)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's me jumping on the bandwagon. Seriously, with that scene between Geralt and Jaskier in episode six...what do the show writers expect us to think?  
I took a less angsty route with this one, figuring there are already plenty of pining fics going up with these two. This story is pretty light and fun, but still shows their bond. As for the name, I'm sticking with "Dandelion" because of references to him in the other stories in this collection, though I do like "Jaskier" better.
> 
> CW: inebriated sex

**Poetic License**

_“In the fields of heavy wheat,_

_A maiden fair I came to meet._

_Her eyes were blue as sapphire jewels_

_Her sweet voice turned wise men to fools.”_

“Her eyes were brown,” Geralt said, chewing on the tender end of a young blade of grass.

Dandelion strummed a discordant note on his lute from his reclined position on the hillside dotted with wildflowers. “There are no brown jewels, Geralt. Allow me a bit of poetic license.”

“Topazes can be brown. Diamonds too.” Geralt walked around Roach, fingers brushing her hide. The cut on her flank from their battle with the harpies was healing nicely. He patted her shoulder and she didn’t even look up, head still buried in the lush grass.

“The maiden in question is an archetype,” Dandelion explained with far more passion that an argument with Geralt required. “She does not have to be an exact copy of the miller’s daughter on whom the ballad is based.”

“I doubt she was a maiden either,” Geralt said, just to make Dandelion snort a laugh. After days of riding through dripping forests and along muddy roads, a day of sunshine left them both in lighter mood. Their damp cloaks were stretched out on the branches of a stunted apple tree. Roach and Dandelion’s gray gelding were just happy to graze in the meadow.

“A gentleman does not discuss a lady’s virtue or lack thereof in his poetry,” Dandelion said plucking out the tune again at a slower pace. “It would be severely uncouth.”

“Except for your ditties about the pretty milkmaid and Jenny of Salty Bits,” Geralt pointed out. “Or the fishmonger’s daughter.”

Dandelion set down his lute. “Those are songs for a public house, not a respected account of our journeys. But I’m pleased that you remember them. Which of my compositions would you say is your favorite, Geralt?”

Geralt leaned back against Roach’s warm side, looking down at Dandelion. “What was the one where you compared the blacksmith’s face to a rotten pumpkin? That was entertaining up until the point where he nearly threw a hammer through your head, which broke a jug of ale, and started a massive fight. Then I had to step in and save your ass, as usual.”

“It’s rewarding to have one’s witticisms appreciated,” Dandelion said blithely, picking up his lute again. “Aren’t you lucky to have me around to enliven your days and sharpen your mind?”

“And drink my liquor and drag me into scrapes?” Geralt muttered, but he couldn’t quite hide his smile.

The main room of the inn was hot and loud and stank of burnt fat, but it was the only option in the little town. The rabbit stew had more wilted cabbage than meat of any kind. The beer tasted bitter enough to make a ghoul pucker, so they switched to wine (mulled with spices to cover up its vinegar flavor). In less than an hour, Dandelion had the entire place singing and stomping along to his latest limerick about a crafty goblin and a vengeful princess or some such nonsense.

I didn’t matter how many times Geralt told Dandelion that goblins and unicorns, and centaurs didn’t exist. In Dandelion’s world, a good story always triumphed over the truth. It had frustrated Geralt at first, but now he just rolled his eyes when Dandelion spun his tales and wrote him as a gallant hero of legend. People believed what pleased them. He couldn’t change what they liked.

Speaking of which…Dandelion had already abandoned him to cozy up to a pair of women near the fire as soon as his song was finished. They both had golden-brown hair tucked under headscarves—one red and the other patterned green and black. He wondered if they were sisters. More importantly, did they have any protective relatives that he’d have to eventually rescue Dandelion from?

Geralt took another long drink from his cup of mulled wine, feeling the anise and nutmeg warm his throat. The room seemed to have grown infernally hot and a sheen of sweat was forming under his armor. Across the room, Dandelion reached out to hold the hand of the red-scarfed woman and stroked her fingers between his.

In a quick movement, Geralt drained the rest of his mug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The edges of the scene around him had the blurred, brushed look of a dreamscape. His head ached.

Standing, Geralt moved to the stairs and returned to the room he and Dandelion had hired for the night. If a tussle broke out over Dandelion’s latest conquest, no doubt he’d hear it through the thin walls. The small, dim room had a rickety bed with a straw-stuffed mattress that Geralt eyed suspiciously. On closer inspection, it did not appear to house any vermin, though there were a few unsavory stains. He spread his bedroll out over it, too soused to care much more. After stripping down to his underclothes, he stacked his armor by the wall, leaned his steel sword next to the bed, and climbed in. The frame squeaked under his weight, but held. Dandelion would just have to take the floor, if he didn’t accompany one or more of the women to their room.

Stretched out on the lumpy mattress, Geralt closed his eyes. Shapes swam through his darkened vision. He felt heavy, but not sleepy. Something throbbed in his muscles and his veins. He couldn’t stop picturing Dandelion below, charming the village women with gilded flattery and playful jests. No one could charm like Dandelion. And as many times as Geralt had wanted to toss him into a ravine, when danger closed in, he always found himself leaping to the bard’s defense. Because Dandelion did the same for him. They shared their fortunes—good and bad. Dandelion put up with Geralt’s obsession with Yennefer and Geralt endured Dandelion’s many, many misadventures in love.

He wondered if Dandelion was holed up with one or both of the women in a nearby room, frolicking on their own straw-filled mattress. Dandelion had pale skin under his clothes. His hands and face were tanned from the sun, but underneath his doublet, his flesh was milky—except for a dark mole on his shoulder and a pink scar on his ribs. They’d bathed in enough streams and lakes on their travels for Geralt to know the bard’s body as well as his own. He wasn’t overly athletic, but he had a springy, light way of moving, like a dancer. Geralt expected those nimble fingers, so adept at plucking strings, could draw moans from his lovers. And that clever, quick mouth could be put to good use, he thought.

Geralt’s cock began to stiffen and rise in his shorts. He chuckled to himself and loosed the drawstrings before pulling the cloth down to his knees. Then he spat in his hand and stroked up the length of his shaft. It felt wonderful in the warm haze that surrounded him. It’d been a while since he’d had the chance to do this. His palm was rough and not wet enough, but the friction sent heat prickling up his spine. He groaned and moved his hand faster, thighs tensing. When the moisture rubbed away, and the rough pain overtook the pleasure, he grabbed his pack and used some of his blade oil to ease the slide. Lying flat on his back, hand on his aching tool, he surrendered to the swarm of hot sparks filling his body.

Footsteps in the hall, but he didn’t mind them until the door swung open with a thud. Someone stumbled in. Geralt sat bolt upright, hand already going to his sword hilt. The room was dark, but he could see the familiar outline weaving its way to the bed.

Dandelion leaped on top of him and they both shouted in surprise.

“Geralt?” Dandelion yelped. “What are you doing?”

“Sleeping?” Geralt said unevenly. Dandelion was sprawled over him, smelling of wine and wood smoke. His hands were on Geralt’s shoulders, one knee digging into Geralt’s thigh.

“She was supposed to meet me here,” Dandelion said in a muddled voice. “It’s just you?”

“How did you forget that we were sharing a room?” Geralt grumbled. He tried to ease Dandelion off him, but the other man flailed and nearly fell off the bed, so he had to grab him again.

“And what have you been doing?” Dandelion said breathlessly. “Is that a steel truncheon pushing into my leg? Were you waiting for someone too?”

“Not exactly,” Geralt said faltering, holding him there so close. Dandelion was a loose, soft weight against him—warm flesh and an intoxicating breath. Part of him knew it was foolish, but it didn’t stop him from wanting.

Dandelion shifted and his knee pressed against Geralt’s hard cock, making Geralt hiss a long exhalation.

“Oh!” Dandelion said, comprehension dawning, and the surprise in his voice might have made Geralt laugh if he weren’t already so tense and horny.

He didn’t let go, and Dandelion didn’t try to move away, but they both just stayed there, frozen and uncertain.

“Well,” Dandelion said slowly, “I hadn’t thought…” He paused. His breath was hot on Geralt’s face. “But, well…why not?”

_Could it be that simple?_ Geralt thought with amazement. And then Dandelion leaned in, carefully, experimentally, a damp press of lips on his that gradually shifted to open mouths and sliding pressure. Dandelion gasped. Geralt grabbed the back of Dandelion’s head and held him there, greedily drinking his fill. The spices of the wine filled his tongue again. He kissed Dandelion with firm, thorough force, bringing soft noises from him.

His hands dropped to the fastenings on Dandelion’s doublet, clumsy fingers working at the buttons and ties. Dandelion got the idea and started opening it from the bottom while Geralt worked at the top. When they’d finally freed him and cast the garment aside, they discarded their undershirts as quickly as possible so that Dandelion could struggle with the ties to his breeches. His clothes were always too tight, Geralt thought irritably, and there were far too many of them.

It occurred to him as they both fumbled free of their clothing that they might be too drunk to make a choice like this, but when he voiced the idea to Dandelion, the bard just scoffed and said. “Don’t be foolish. It’s a better choice of partner than we usually make.”

Then they were tumbling together onto the bed again, making the frame creak and shake. Geralt pulled Dandelion on top of him, aligning their pricks so that they could rub together. “Oh fuck,” Dandelion hissed roughly as Geralt’s hand closed around them. “You know your strengths, don’t you?”

It was good, thrusting into his palm together, building the pleasure with Dandelion’s thighs squeezing over his, and Dandelion’s lilting voice loosing elegant strings of profanities. But he wanted more—more skin, more contact.

He reached up with both hands and pulled Dandelion down to sprawl over his body. Sweat slid between them their flesh stuck together. Their cocks pressed hard between their bellies and Dandelion wriggled against him with a breathy laugh. “Now I know how haughty Lady Yennefer feels all tangled in your embrace.”

Geralt slid his hands down Dandelion’s sides, over his hips and settled on the full globes of his ass. He squeezed firmly and Dandelion pulsed into him, writhing slowly there. “There are a few differences.”

“Indeed. However shall we manage?” Dandelion murmured, still moving against him with obvious desire.

Geralt’s fingers spread Dandelion’s ass cheeks apart and his thumbs ran over the crevice there. “Are you interested in alternatives?”

Dandelion’s cock jerking between them answered for him. “Well,” he said in a high voice. “The Countess de Stael did like playing with my derriere from time to time. It was…quite enjoyable.”

Geralt rumbled a chuckle, aching with the need to fuck. “I think I can improve on that.”

He rolled Dandelion off of him and onto the mattress. Then Geralt fumbled around the floor for the oil he’d left there. Scrambling back onto the bed, he used the oil to rub behind Dandelion’s balls finding the tight passage there.

“Is that oil for your sword?” Dandelion squeaked. But he opened his thighs wider to give Geralt’s finger more access.

“I haven’t mixed any alchemical elements with it,” Geralt assured him, circling the length of his finger inside. “Your ass won’t repel necrophages, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Might be better if it did,” Dandelion quipped. He yelped as Geralt pushed another finger into his hole. “Is this really necessary?”

“Yes,” Geralt said. “I’m guessing I’m a lot bigger than whatever the countess put inside you.”

“A specially forged, gilded fertility charm molded after phallus of Reginald d’Aubry,” Dandelion said. “The best money could buy. She said she used it quite a bit on herself before I came along.”

“Did your fertility improve?” Geralt asked dryly, crooking his fingers and rubbing around.

Dandelion suddenly couldn’t reply, arching off the bed with a snap of his back. “Merciful Melitele!”

“Like that?” Geralt asked, rubbing him again.

Dandelion tried to say something but it dissolved into a garbled moan as his body twisted again at the impact of Geralt’s fingers.

Geralt stretched him a little more, then spread a quick palmful of oil over his own prick. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Dandelion panted, leaning his head back on the bed and lifting his ass for Geralt. “No shame, my friend, but in my experience, few things overwhelm me when it comes to—” his sentence cut off as Geralt lifted his hips and fed his cock into Dandelion’s stretched hole.

It was fantastically tight and perfect. He inched in with small thrusts, holding tight to the cradle of Dandelion’s hips. He could see Dandelion’s fingers digging into the bedroll over the mattress, but the bard didn’t voice a complaint. He simply groaned softly.

When Geralt had finally seated himself completely, hips pressing into Dandelion’s spread thighs, they both gave a shuddery sigh of relief. Dandelion looked up at him with glassy, eyes and an open mouth. “You are rather bigger than the fertility charm, I must say,” he croaked.

“And how do you feel about that?” Geralt asked, giving a quick, shallow thrust.

Dandelion swore harshly, his flushed cock slapping against his belly. “Feels like a fucking centaur is inside me.”

Geralt snorted a laugh. “No centaurs,” he said through the haze of lust. “Just a fucking mutant.” He thrust again, longer and slower, savoring the drag and Dandelion’s soft moan. “You feel like paradise around me, you know? I could fuck you all night.”

“Then you’d better get on with it,” Dandelion hissed, squeezing around him. “I’m likely to fall asleep at this rate.”

Geralt growled, hands going to the underside of Dandelion’s knees to lift and spread him more. Then he started fucking in earnest. Dandelion bounced with the rocking of the bed, trying to hold on. His head fell from side to side and his voice rose from low moans to shouts of pleasure. Geralt wanted to tell him to be quiet, but he couldn’t think of the words. He pounded into that lush, tight ass like it was his only purpose in the world.

Just as the pressure of building ecstasy was rising in his balls and Dandelion was frantically trying to wank himself off, still rocking with the force of Geralt’s thrusts, they heard a choked shriek from the door.

At some point, the woman in the red headscarf had opened it, and neither of them had noticed. Geralt froze for an instant, taking in her startled expression, her hands covering her mouth. Then he pulled out and away from Dandelion, throwing the edge of the bedroll over him to cover him up.

Dandelion turned feverish eyes to the doorway and gestured sharply with a look of impatience. “Never mind, Buttercup. We’ll meet another time. You’re far too late tonight.”

The woman stared at the two of them—Geralt naked and still half-erect. Dandelion draped over the mattress, barely covered by the woolen bedroll. Damp hair clung to his face and his skin glistened with a sheen of sweat over the flush of arousal.

She backed out slowly and closed the door.

Geralt looked with concern to Dandelion who simply threw the bedroll off his hips and opened his legs wide again. “For heavens’ sake, Geralt, don’t _stop_.”

“But…” Geralt trailed off. “She might get us in a lot of trouble.”

“Never mind that,” Dandelion said impatiently. He curled one hand around his cock and brought the other up to rub and twist one of his nipples. “Get in me again before I lose my damned mind.”

Looking at him stretched out on the bed all pale skin and ravenous eyes, Geralt’s cock lifted to full mast. He piled their saddle bags and armor against the door, then sprinted back to the bed where Dandelion was working himself into a frenzy.

“Get to it!” he demanded.

Geralt obeyed, grabbed his legs, and pushed back into him in a single, smooth stroke. Dandelion barked a startled laugh, head falling back against the mattress, hips pushing into Geralt. Geralt groaned. It was like coming home again. His vision glazed over. “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t speak.”

“I’d like to see—” Dandelion started to say. Geralt dug his fingernails into Dandelions hips and screwed into him with a vicious twist. Dandelion’s gasping moan made his cock throb.

He fucked the bard hard and fast, no time for finesse. It became almost a challenge to see how loud he could make Dandelion cry out. The bed frame squealed in protest. Dandelion yelled and bucked and spent his seed in hot bursts between them. Geralt let his last shred of self-control tear free and he hammered in hard, shallow strokes until the wild tide of release thundered through him. He shouted, pulsing waves of his release into that tight heat, just as bedframe cracked loudly, splitting and spilling them both onto the floor.

Lying there in the tangle of the bedroll, the tilted mattress, and the smeared mess of their sweat and spend, they could only breathe heavily for several minutes. Then Dandelion started to laugh. “How many beds have you broken this way, my vigorous friend?”

“Not many,” Geralt said gruffly. “This one was just poorly made.”

Dandelion flopped his head to the side, still chuckling incredulously. “Melitele save me. I never thought this would happen.”

“Why?” Geralt turned to look at him.

Dandelion shrugged indolently. “You tend to alternate between despising me and merely enduring my presence.”

Geralt bit his lip. “I like you…when you aren’t driving me completely insane. I just thought you only slept with women.”

“So did I. I had no idea what I was missing! An entire world of possibilities.” Dandelion grinned at the broken bed.

Geralt sighed and rubbed his forehead, thinking of Dandelion with a substantial increase in sexual opportunities. “Does this mean the locals will have to lock up their sons as well as their daughters when you’re in town?”

“Perhaps. Though as long as I’m traveling with you, I don’t see any reason to seek out other male companions. I can’t imagine they’d match your prowess.”

A tingle of happiness threaded through Geralt’s chest. He pulled the mattress from its lopsided position in the splintered mess of wood to the middle of the floor, and spread the bedroll over it again. Then he lifted Dandelion onto it and wrapped his arms around him. “Not much space, but we’ll make do.”

Dandelion just yawned loudly and nestled in close to him.

To Geralt’s surprise, no one interrupted their sleep that night. Their belongings were still heaped against the door when the rooster began to crow. Geralt had slept so deeply, his left arm was numb from being tucked under Dandelion. He withdrew it carefully and flexed it, bringing pins and needles prickling under his skin.

Dandelion didn’t stir, just let out another rattling snore. He was drooling on the bedroll, mouth slack and chest crusty with dried spend. But he was beautiful too—rumpled hair and pale skin and pink-brown nipples. Geralt leaned down and kissed his shoulder, downy with short, fine hairs.

“Ugh,” Dandelion groaned. “Please kill that bedamned rooster. I long for a good poultry stew.”

“Roosters are stringy and gamey,” Geralt said. He slid a comforting hand down Dandelion’s shoulder, along his arm, and encircled his wrist. “I can tend to another kind of cock, if you’d like.”

“My head is as thick as a potato mash,” Dandelion complained. He turned to lie on his back, opened his eyes, and squinted at the ceiling. “That mulled wine is far more insidious than it looks.”

“Let’s try a hangover cure,” Geralt said, moving down Dandelion’s body to his half-mast morning wood. He licked a slow stroke, bringing Dandelion to attention, then closed his mouth over the head of the shaft, suckling and caressing the flesh with his tongue.

Dandelion rolled his head back with a low groan. “Dear gods, he sucks cock too. I shall never leave this bed.”

Geralt grunted and drew Dandelion’s prick deeper, nudging his throat. He flattened his tongue against the underside of the shaft, stroking it steadily. The big vein there throbbed against his tongue as Dandelion tried to thrust up into his throat. He held Dandelion’s hips down with both hands, keeping him pinned to the mattress. Dandelion’s soft curses dissolved into whimpers and moans. Geralt smiled around the prick in his mouth. It pleased him that he finally had a method to shut up his prattling friend.

When he tasted the first salty burst of spunk, he let go of his hold on Dandelion’s hips and let the bard fuck his face. The rough force of the prick hitting the back of his throat repeatedly made him choke a little. His thick saliva pooled at the base of Dandelion’s cock. Dandelion gave a stuttering cry as he released, pumping seed down Geralt’s throat. Geralt swallowed as much as he could, but a good portion of it dribbled out to mix with his spit on Dandelion’s groin.

Easing off carefully. Geralt wiped his mouth, feeling the rough pleasure of bruised lips and a sore jaw.

Dandelion lay spent and panting. Without opening his eyes, he murmured dreamily, “Your cure is remarkably effective, sir witcher.”

The notice board outside the inn had a contract for a nest of drowners on the lakeside, yellowed and curled at the edges. Geralt studied it carefully before they left the village. Thankfully they had no trouble with the inhabitants on the way out.

“We’re extremely lucky your darling Buttercup didn’t raise a mob for us,” Geralt told Dandelion gruffly, voice still a little hoarse.

Dandelion shifted uncomfortably on his mount. “My dear Geralt, things are different here in the south. No one cares who you bed. Besides, how could lovely Buttercup explain to her husband how she found herself in the bard’s chambers in the first place?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Really, Dandelion? Another married woman?”

“She was the best the inn could offer,” Dandelion said. “Or so I thought. I hadn’t an inkling that you were an option. Anyhow, It’s all for the best. I could never respect myself if I had bedded someone named after a vulgar little marsh flower.”

“Haha,” Geralt muttered. “And how’s your arse feeling this fine morning?”

“About as well as your throat, judging by your voice.” Dandelion smirked, then winced as his saddle shifted again. “All the same, my current discomfort was well worth the thorough riding I received.”

Geralt felt his ears reddening. He couldn’t help but think back to Dandelion panting and bucking beneath him on the straw mattress.

A cool breeze swept up from the lakeside. They continued in companionable silence for some time along its shining waters. Intermittently, the sun broke through the low clouds to glitter on the ripples. A pair of dark cormorants perched on dead trees scanning for fish until one plunged into the water, swift as an arrow. From the thick roadside weeds, the scent of purple clover drifted up, making the horses continually try to stretch in for a mouthful.

Dandelion leaned back in his saddle, unstrapped his lute and strummed it lazily.

_“All shrink from the witcher’s eyes_

_All beware the witcher’s speed_

_All flee when his magic flies_

_But it’s his blade that you must heed.”_

Geralt frowned. “I’m not sure I like where this is going.”

_“A magic sword of heft and length_

_Wielded with force and oiled to slide_

_With wicked aim and wild strength_

_It will split you open wide._

_Hail the witcher’s mighty blade!_

_Hail to all it has brought low!_

_Dames and dukes have begged and prayed_

_To fall before his thundering blows!”_

Geralt turned back to glare at Dandelion, slowing Roach so that the bard’s horse sidled up beside him. “If you ever sing that in public, I’ll show you a thundering blow, you yowling tomcat.”

Dandelion ducked, grinning. “You haven’t even heard the final verse. It’s all about your life-giving mouth.” He laughed at Geralt’s expression and dug his heels into his horse’s sides, urging it ahead.

Geralt gave pursuit, following him down the sun-streaked road. His saddle bags rocked against Roach’s sides. Ahead of him, Dandelion squeaked with each jolt and clutched his lute in one hand like a banner flag. When he finally gave up and pulled on the reins, his horse slowed to a stop in a little clearing. Its shaggy head dropped to graze at the damp grass sprinkled with golden flowers.

Dandelion leaned over the saddle horn to look at Geralt with a wide, cheeky smile. His voice was light and a little breathless from his gallop. “You’ve caught me.”


	9. Acrobatics (Eveline Gallo)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eveline Gallo--possibly the hottest elf, next to Iorveth. Her flippant, fun, thrill-seeking personality was so different from the others. I really wanted to see more of her in Hearts of Stone.

**Acrobatics**

The witcher fired four bolts with steady precision and the apples split to pieces one by one, raining chunks on Meryn’s head and torso. The sour-faced elf winced each time and couldn’t keep from flinching. Nonetheless, the crossbow bolts flew true.

The crowd whooped with delight, though a few onlookers expressed disappointment that the elf hadn’t been hit.

Eveline clapped along with them, shrewdly upping her assessment of the mutant. He wasn’t as fast as Vann, their unfortunate former marksman, but his quiet confidence and skill intrigued her. Watching him climb off the stage, she leaned against a barrel of sawdust and played a little with the ties on her bodice, twisting them between her fingers.

When the witcher pushed through the onlookers and approached Eveline, she gave him a calculated smile. “Excellent work, witcher. Now will you tell me about this opportunity you have for me? An anonymous performance you said?”

His yellow eyes measured her carefully. “It’s group effort. Meet us at the herbalist’s hut northeast of Oxenfurt.”

“Ooh, I adore a good mystery,” Eveline purred, already feeling the glow of anticipation. “But I had hoped you were asking for a private performance.”

The witcher’s mouth twitched. “I didn’t know you provided that service.”

Eveline set her hands on the barrel behind her and lifted her chest. “It’s exclusively for those I find interesting. You interest me, Geralt of Rivia.”

When he hesitated, doubtless wondering what her angle was, she shrugged and pushed herself off the barrel. “I’d hoped to see how you perform in a different arena, but if it doesn’t appeal to you, we’ll remain professional colleagues instead.”

The witcher huffed a little breath through his nose. She couldn’t read his thoughts, but she knew what he’d do. The way he watched her, like so many men did…it made her want to laugh. Men were so stupid. A pretty face and a slim body—they’d cut off their own thumbs to have it, even for a night. Most of the time, she didn’t bother, but the appeal of the traveling circus was wearing thin, and the endless routine of shows had left her bored. Bored and itchy. It’d been too long since she’d had a job that set her blood pumping. And even longer since she’d had a good fuck. Men could be useful for that kind of thing.

Also, Meryn’s irritating overtures and cloying pet names had left her wanting to screw someone just to piss him off. She knew he was watching her right now, probably scowling as he picked bits of apple out of his hair.

She moved in close to the witcher, brushing her fingers across his chest. “If you want a more intimate performance, meet me at the old mill on the hill in an hour.”

Then she walked away without waiting her his reply. He’d come, she knew.

Hopefully, she’d come too.

She watched him enter from her perch in the loft, looking down on the dusty yard below. His white head swiveled to scan his surroundings. His shoulders were squared under his dark armor. His arms hung loose with the natural tension of a man used to drawing his sword at a moment’s notice. She wondered how quick his reflexes were.

To his credit, he noticed her before he passed into the building. Sharp cat eyes caught hers. He stopped and looked up at her. “Perched in the rafters. Is that why you’re called Dove?”

She chuckled. “Only by those who don’t really know me.” Her fingers worked at the laces on her bodice.

“You look more like a panther to me,” the witcher said.

“And you’re the White Wolf,” she said. She opened the bodice, pulled it off her arms, and dangled it above him. “It’s too bad wolves can’t climb. I might have a treat for the one who can catch me.” She dropped the garment and watched the witcher catch it deftly. The cool air on her bare breasts made her nipples harden.

He laughed and folded the cloth in his hands. “I’m no panther, but I’ll give you a chase, if that’s what you want.”

She grinned down at him. “Come get me, then.” Then she leaned back and flipped off the beam to land in a crouch in the loft.

The weathered boards were warped and uneven. She danced over them, sailing over the gaps. Below her, she could hear the witcher’s boots pounding on the stairs. Warm blood beat through her body. Her heart gave a leap of excitement. A hunt! An escape!

Eveline clambered up into the rafters, flying from one to another. Her movement stirred up a fine rain of dust to betray her position so she unlaced one boot and threw it across the room raising a small cloud. Then she hunkered down and waited.

She watched his head emerge from the whole in the floor where the ladder led. Then he climbed into the loft and scanned around. He located the boot, but didn’t take the bait, instead sweeping his keen gaze overhead. When he spotted her again, he cocked his head.

“Excellent vision,” she said. She dropped her other boot as a little reward. She sat on the narrow board and swung her bare feet down. “But can you ever reach me?”

He set down his pack and his weapons, then stretched his arms up and jumped, catching the edge of a rafter beam below her. He pulled himself up with impressive strength. He had some trouble balancing there, but he was close to her now. If he could jump again, he’d reach her perch, just above.

She stretched her toes out to him and giggled at the expression on his face. Then she turned her body around in a smooth spin, hooked her knees over the board and dangled her upper body down. Her arms reached out for him and he caught her hands, using her strength to balance himself.

He angled his face and kissed her, brief but hard. The prickle of his whiskers was alien and arousing against her sensitive skin. She gasped and swung back. Unbalanced, he dropped off the rafter to the loft with a heavy thud, tucking himself into a roll. The hard impact raised a small cloud of dust, but he got to his feet easily, looking no worse for wear.

“Sorry,” Eveline said, laughing. “You shouldn’t have surprised me like that, _vatt’ghern_.” She twisted her torso back and forth, shaking her breasts at him.

He grunted and brushed dust and cobwebs away. “You’re the one that surprised me.”

To her delight, he sprang and hoisted himself up again, swifter this time. She pulled herself upright and crouched, feet light on the wood. With a flex of his calves, he leaped again, flying at her like a cat. He grabbed the edge of her beam and hung there. She shrieked with joy and jumped away, landing on a farther rafter. As he pulled himself up, she was already going for the next on, climbing up to the jagged hole in the roof. When she looked back, he was following, much slower, but with more power and grace than she’d anticipated.

This is why she liked to fuck _dh’oine_, despite their many faults. Meryn or other Aen Seidhe would have tried to romance her with poetry and courtship then insisted on a lifelong bond consisting of sparse, uninspired coupling before they both lost any desire they might have had for each other. By contrast, these filthy humans were little better than animals in heat, but there was something about the fierce, primal drive in them that ignited her. She’d always had a weakness for danger and risk, and this witcher radiated both. 

Giggling, she lifted herself onto the roof. The wooden tiles were rotting away in many places. She danced over them, light-footed and swift. He’d never be able to follow her here. At the far edge of the roof, a thick metal rod extended to the huge wheel of the mill, locked to keep it from turning. She’d used it for practice before, walking from the roof to the wheel. There was a narrow landing for the stairs just below. The empty wine bottle she’d left there the other day lay forlornly in the corner like a huge green beetle.

Looking behind her, she couldn’t see the witcher following. She smirked to herself. She’d have to go back and find him. But first… She loosened the ties on her leggings and slipped them off, dropping them to the landing. Naked, Eveline stepped onto the cold metal rod, toes curling around it. She took a few steps, then swanned forward, lifting one leg behind her. The breeze brought out gooseflesh on her skin and made her feel alive.

A cough from below. She put her foot down, suddenly unsteady. The witcher stood in the doorway of the landing, sweeping his hot gaze over her.

“You found me,” she crooned, setting her hands on her hips.

“I followed your scent,” he said. “It led me to a lovely view.”

She stepped one leg over the other in false modesty. “You’re making me feel underdressed with all that armor on.”

He chuckled and unbuckled his cuirass. She seated herself on the metal length and dangled her feet down as he undressed. She couldn’t believe how many layers he had on. To amuse herself, she began running her hands over her body. Then she straddled the rod and leaned forward, bringing the cold, hard metal against her cunt. It sent a shock of pleasure through her, especially watching the witcher’s reaction. He stripped off the last of his clothes in a hurried rush, revealing an impressive physique—burly shoulders, thick arms, and dark nipples on a sculpted, hairless chest. Pity, she did like a little fur on her men, but he was still different enough from the svelte, sleek elven males to suit her.

She threw both legs off the metal rod, gripped it hard and used her hands and arms to rotate her naked body around it twice—in quick snaps of movement. Showing off for him, yes, but also exhibiting her power. She straightened her body in a flat line, lowering it slowly.

When the witcher moved toward her, she opened her legs wide and threw them over his shoulders, resting her thighs on either side of his neck. His beard scraped her soft skin. He made an appreciative sound and grabbed her ass with both hands, pulling her pelvis into his face. She felt another leap of excitement as he opened his mouth over her cunt and slipped his tongue inside her.

Eveline gripped the bar harder, groin jerking forward with instinctive hunger. He licked and sucked and groaned into her pussy, like a famished man before a feast. His hands on her buttocks urged her closer and deeper. His thick, forceful tongue was drawing wild, hot tendrils of pleasure out of her. His nose pressed against the sensitive bud of her clit and she found herself rocking into the sensation, gasping at the feeling frothing up inside her. She arched her back, head falling between her tight shoulder blades.

It took all of her focus just to hold onto the bar while he suckled and licked and hummed into her pussy. Her heels dug into his back. Her ass pumped in his hands. She keened high, wild sounds as she jerked there, squeezing her thighs on either side of his head. He was grunting and snuffling, face sliding easily in her slick. His callused fingers rubbed and squeezed her buttocks. She felt overwhelmed with sensation.

When he moved his mouth up to carefully lick and suck at her clit, the building wave rolled through her. Her belly tightened and her calves bulged against his back. Her spine curved like a bridge and her chest thrust up. The crash of euphoria pulsed through her and she shouted, squeezing around his face.

Coming down, her strength seemed to leave her. Her arms shook. The witcher moved his hands up to her waist and she let go of the bar. He lowered her into the pile of discarded clothing on the landing. She stretched out, still dizzy. Warm bliss continued to pulse through her muscles.

The witcher looked down at her. His eyes were wide black pupils in golden pools. His face was shining with her slick. His cock curved red and thick toward her. The tip glistened with his excitement.

She smiled languidly up at him. She spread her legs wide in a horizontal line. Her cunt was soaking wet and swollen pink from the ministrations of his mouth. She rubbed one finger over her tingling clit and gasped a laugh at the sensation.

The witcher made a rough sound in response.

“What are you waiting for?” Eveline murmured, circling two fingers through her wet pussy.

“No more acrobatics?” the witcher said with a slow smile, kneeling before her.

“You want to fuck on a tightrope?” she asked with impatience. “Don’t be an idiot.”

He smirked and lowered himself toward, her, but instead of thrusting in, he leaned his head down to lick at her left breast. His tongue circled her nipple, bring fresh tingles of sensation through her core. He closed his mouth over it, sucking hard, then flicked his tongue against it. Eveline cursed roughly. Her fingers dug into his thick hair and she held his head there, drawing out her pleasure. His beard rasped a strange, hot friction.

She wrapped her legs around his lower back and urged him down, lifting her pelvis to his. The slick head of his cock nudged against her inner thigh and they both inhaled sharply. He scraped the edge of his teeth against her nipple making her cry out. Then his head came up, one hand slipped down to the curve of her ass, and he thrust into her, swift and smooth.

Eveline screamed and arched up, a blazing shock streaking through her. The witcher groaned and held them there, balancing. After a moment of hard breathing, he rocked gently into her. Fuck, he was big. She gave a breathless giggle, high and giddy with the hot girth stretching her cunt. Every tiny moment seemed to work him deeper. She pressed her palms flat on the hard boards and pushed her lower body back into him, meeting his movement as much as she could.

Gradually, he shifted to longer, dragging thrusts that made her vision blur and sweat drip down her back. She moaned and slid her feet down his back to dig her heels into his ass. She used her leverage to push them together hard. He grunted a harsh sound and started pumping into her in with gratifying force.

His thrusts pushed her back and forth, bunching the fabric of the garments under her back. The increasing speed and friction rubbing inside, brought her spiraling up. Heated vibrations radiated out from her core, up her veins, sparking her nipples, through her throat and into her swirling head.

She felt the dam burst inside her for the second time, as the witcher pounded her with relentless, shallow thrusts at an impossible speed. Her eyes rolled back in her head. Her cunt pulsed tight contractions as the blind, raw pleasure flooded her again.

The witcher’s breath hitched and he gave a stuttering groan. His spend filled her—hot and slick. A few more grinding thrusts, drawing out the last of the fall. Then he lowered himself onto her, still half supporting his weight with his forearms.

“I won’t break,” Eveline said between breaths. His skin was blazing hot and sticky against her. She snorted softly. “Witchers are sterile, right? That’s not an old wives’ tale?”

He grunted. “Don’t worry. No half-elves made tonight.”

She sighed and ran her hands over the ridges of scars on his back. “So…are you going to tell me anything about this job? What’s the take?”

His breath was warm on her shoulder. “A vault full of riches. As much as you can carry.”

She whistled softly. “Good to hear, if it’s true. Might even be worth risking my neck on a stranger’s proposition.”

She could feel him smiling into her skin. “What’s life without a little risk?” he rumbled.

“Death,” she said. She wrapped her legs around him again and twisted, turning their bodies without separating. She straddled his hips, his spent cock still inside her. “You and me, we can’t really live without danger, can we? It’s just in our blood.”

“You might be right.” He reached out and stroked both hands from the sides of her breasts, over her ribs, over her hips and down to her ass.

She tightened her cunt around him, fell a little answering pulse inside her. “Come again?”

He chuckled incredulously. “What do you think I am?”

“You’re not a weak, stupid man,” she said. “You’re a damn witcher. Come on, witcher.” She moved against him, squeezing rhythmically, massaging his prick with her inner walls. Trickles of his seed seeped out from inside her and squished between them. The wet squelch of their joining was obscene. He groaned and she felt his thickening hardness inside her like a gift.

Laughing breathlessly, she scraped her fingernails up his sides. He bucked beneath her, fingers digging into her buttocks, pressing into the marks he’d left before. There was a bruise forming on the back of her shoulder where she’d been lying on a buckle. Her palms were stinging from gripping the metal rod. Her cunt was sore and aching. It was glorious. She rode him hard and relentless, breasts bouncing, sweaty hair falling in her face.

Tomorrow they’d meet and scheme and sink into darkness, walking a deadly line. But now, here high above the earth, the hot, sweet rush of life burned through them.


	10. Heat (Hjalmar and Folan)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for a late update. I've been focusing a lot of my energy on finishing another major fic. But here's another gratuitously porny threesome to tide you over. It fulfills my bear kink and my head-canon that Hjalmar and Folan are a couple, or at least fuck buddies. Gotta love these lusty Scottish vikings!

Inside the dark cave with the chill wind howling against the mountain, Geralt lay on his side, shifting to find a comfortable place on his bedroll. After the fight with the ice giant, he and the two Skelligers had been too battered and weary to find their way down the mountainside. Brawny Hjalmar and his loyal Folan had huddled together in a collection of furs in one corner, sharing warmth.

Used to sleeping and meditating alone out in the wild, Geralt thought for sure that he’d sink easily into rest after the battles he’d fought through. But it was impossible to find a flat, dry place in the damp cave. Every time he settled down, the cold began to seep into his bones again.

After some time, he heard the two men arguing quietly. Folan was still worried about Cerys setting out on her own. Hjalmar dismissed his concerns vehemently, reminding his friend of his sister’s abilities. Geralt was inclined to agree with him, having witnessed Cerys’ physical strength and her sharp wits for himself. Still, he understood why Folan, who had grown up with both siblings, would fret about her safety.

Hjalmar’s voice rose. “Cerys, Cerys, this an’ that. Why’re you so caught on her?”

“She’s your sister!”

“And not yours. I ask you, are you star-eyed over my sister? Do you aim to ask for her hand?”

“Of course not!” Folan’s voice was harsh. “I only—”

“Only won’t stop speakin’ her name. Mayhap you ought ta say mine a time or two. I’m right here beside you. Can you not say my name?”

Softer voices then. He had to strain his ears to hear the breathy _“Hjalmar.” _Then rustling in the blankets, then hushed murmurs and quickening breathing. Again, “Hjalmar, Hjalmar…” in a low, rough voice.

Childhood friends, Geralt thought, smiling to himself. They’d doubtless learned on each other from a young age. He ought to leave them to their sweet fumblings and continue feigning sleep. But their increasing moans and the rustle of coverings made his own prick begin to stiffen.

He shifted, trying to turn his body and the rub of his trousers over his groin made him suck in a hard inhalation.

The noises stopped and he heard Hjalmar’s voice in the darkness. “Hoy, witcher. Awake?”

No point in pretending. “Yes,” Geralt said evenly.

More movement and Geralt turned his head to see Hjalmar standing, weakly outlined in the faint moonlight from the mouth of the cave. His fiery red-gold beard was the only spot of color in the shadows of the cavern.

“Mightn’t we have a bit of your oil?” Hjalmar asked. “Lost mine somewhere abouts.”

Geralt sat up. “Oil for what?” he asked, teasing. “A spot of rust on your sword?”

“Nay,” Hjalmar answered. “Just a bit of buggering.” He paused, as though a thought occurred to him. “You’re not opposed ta that, are you? We’ve heard witchers tumble all sorts.”

“Are you asking me to join you?” Geralt asked, setting his hands on his knees. A surge of arousal throbbed through him at the thought of it.

Hjalmar cocked his head. “Truth be told, it weren’t my intention, yet...” He turned to their bedding, where Folan lay. “What of it? Want ta tussle with a witch-man, Fol?”

Folan made a strangled sound. “All together? How’d we…”

“Lots of ways,” Geralt said, looking them over appraisingly. “Just tell me what you like.”

“Fol’s partial to gettin’ his horn sucked,” Hjalmar said. “Me, I love a ripe arse for the ploughing.”

Folan gave a choked gasp. “You can’t just tell ‘im that!”

“It’s all right,” Geralt assured him. He eased slowly to his feet. “There’s nothing you can say that will surprise me. I have at least half a century of experience on you boys.”

Hjalmar gave a coarse chuckle. Folan sat up. The furs sliding off him revealed his bare chest and muscular arms, skin still pink from his time in the heat of the trolls’ soup cauldron. His russet-brown beard and hair were disheveled. His eyes on Geralt were hooded and uncertain.

Geralt went to his pack and got out his trusty jar of purified fat. “Here’s your slick. Whether or not you want to use it with me, you’ll have to decide for yourselves. But I do have a fairly decent mouth and arse, if that interests you.”

Hjalmar grinned at him, taking the jar. “We’ll give it mite of consideration.” He moved back to Folan and knelt behind him. “Poor Fol can’t sleep in his kit, his hide’s so raw. I could use your help keeping ‘im warm.”

He reached down and slid his hand under the furs covering Folan’s lap. Folan sucked in a quick breath as Hjalmar’s hand moved there, an obscene pulse under the coverings. Hjalmar wrapped his free arm around Folan’s body, trapping his arms against his chest. Folan’s head fell back on Hjalmar’s shoulder and his eyes fell half-closed. His hips rocked with the movement of Hjalmar’s hand. “This part of ‘im needs lovin,’” Hjalmar said, voice roughening. “Tis a bit dry in my paw. You might wet it, Witcher.”

Geralt growled softly, trousers ridiculously tight at the scene before him. He stalked to their little nest of furs and sank to his knees. His fingers brushed lightly over Folan’s belly. When the archer didn’t flinch or show any reluctance, Geralt lowered his head and traced a wet circle around his navel. He felt the skin shiver under the touch of his tongue.

Then Hjalmar lifted the covering off Folan’s hips, exposing his hard, curved cock to Geralt’s hungry gaze. Geralt sank down without hesitation and licked a long stripe down it, drawing a high, sharp sound out of Folan. He circled the bulbous head with his tongue then slid down again to the base. Folan’s hips twitched into his touch. Geralt moved lower still, sinking down on his forearms, and sucked a heavy ball into his mouth. It was warm and velvety against his tongue and cheeks. A harsh moan dragged out of Folan and his wet cock slid against Geralt’s cheek and nose.

Hearing a shifting sound, Geralt looked up and saw Hjalmar easing Folan down into the furs. Folan lay flat on his back, shoulders bunched tight. As Geralt moved to the second testicle, rolling its weight over his tongue, he sensed Hjalmar behind him.

Braced on his knees and elbows over Folan’s groin, Geralt was in a vulnerable position. But he had no fear. Hjalmar’s hands on his lower back only made his cock jump with anticipation.

“Aye, a decent arse,” Hjalmar said softly. “I’d like to see it for myself.” His fingers moved down, worked Geralt’s trousers open, and eased them over his buttocks, down to his knees. Geralt’s prick gave a sigh of relief as it sprang free. Hjalmar smoothed his palms over the curve of the cheeks, then spread them with his thumbs. “Hoy, Witcher, I’m keen to plough this well. What say you?” He leaned in and his clothed erection rubbed impatiently against the furrow of Geralt’s ass.

Geralt released Folan’s left ball from his mouth with a wet pop. “Fuck me like you mean it. Like it’s your last fucking chance for glory.”

Hjalmar laughed roughly.

Geralt heard him fumbling around for a bit, so he took the opportunity to close his lips around Folan’s bobbing prick. Folan yelped and his hips snapped up to push into the moist heat around him. Geralt grasped the base of his shaft. He was just started to work it with his hand and tongue when he felt a slippery touch on his ass.

The tip of Hjalmar’s finger was thick and rough with calluses. It prodded into Geralt determined force. When Geralt relaxed his muscles, it slid in easily enough. But the second finger was a tighter fit, and it went no slower than the first. The coarse pressure made Geralt spread wide, trying to ease the movement. Stuffed full with Hjalmar’s meaty, insistent digits, he surrendered to the raw sting and burn of the stretch. He moaned around the cock in his mouth and heard Folan’s answering groan of pleasure.

Folan hands tangled in Geralt’s hair—strong bowman’s fingers. He pulsed up into Geralt’s mouth, trying to get deeper. He was hard and hot and perfect and the silky rub of his cockhead against the back of Geralt’s throat, made them both a little wild. With Hjalmar’s fingers fucking Geralt on one end and Folan’s prick fucking his mouth, it was a barrage of overwhelming sensation.

Then Hjalmar’s fingers slid out with a painful speed. He grunted harshly. A moment later, the head of his oiled shaft slid up Geralt’s crack and into his hole. The red bear of Clan Craite lived up to his reputation. _Too goddamn big_, Geralt thought with a rare moment of surprise. But it split him open nonetheless.

Geralt gasped and groaned frantic vibrations around Folan’s cock. He couldn’t move. He just braced himself and took the brunt of Hjalmar’s resolute intrusion. The hefty tool inside him forced him open wide. Despite the oil, the burn of friction and stretching lingered. It was a hot weight inside him, making him dizzy and damp with sweat. He lifted his mouth off Folan’s cock and pressed his face into the cradle of Folan’s hip, panting softly and trying to orient himself.

Folan whined and writhed, but Geralt could barely think. He wanted Hjalmar to fuck him and he was a little afraid of it. His muscles trembled with suppressed movement. His brain buzzed with swirling desires.

Hjalmar’s beard rustled and scratched against Geralt’s ear as he leaned down. “I’m aching to hammer you well, Witcher. But first you’re ta finish off Fol ‘ere. Then I’ll give you a fine riding.”

Geralt swore softly, vision still hazy. The pressure inside him was immense, but he was slowly adjusting to it. He lifted his head with purpose, looking up to see Folan’s desperate expression. The archer bit his lip, eyes dark and dilated.

Deliberately, Geralt licked once more at the head of his cock. Then he swallowed it down again, taking Folan deep. Folan’s wordless shout was gratifying. Geralt worked his tongue in fast, circular swirls, teasing as much sensation as he could. The salty taste increased as Folan bucked up into him. Inside Geralt, Hjalmar’s cock jerked as he watched, pitching Geralt slightly forward. All three of them moaned to different degrees.

As Folan’s cock hit the back of his throat, Geralt relaxed it automatically, taking him deeper. He breathed in hard through his nose. Slurping and sucking on Folan’s cock, he squeezed his ass on the shaft buried inside him, without thinking. He felt the answering jerk from Hjalmar as the other man struggled with his promise to not move.

Folan was crying out helplessly as he pounded hard and fast into Geralt’s throat. The first jet of his seed was easy to swallow. But as he continued to pulse hot streams into Geralt’s mouth, Geralt choked and let the salty spend dribble out. Finally, Folan’s shaft stilled and softened on his tongue. Behind him, he could hear Hjalmar swearing soft and low.

Geralt licked Folan clean until the other man whimpered at the over-stimulation. Releasing the spent member, Geralt looked up at Folan’s slack face, eyes half-mast. Folan’s fingers caressed his scalp lightly, sleepily.

“Damn,” Hjalmar said in a strained voice. Then a sudden, hard thrust from behind nearly sent Geralt sprawling on top of Folan. He rocked forward with the force of the drive, breath knocked out of his body. His arms tightened and he pushed back, driving the monster even deeper inside him. His vision blurred and his breath came hot and fast.

“Gods, you’re strong,” Hjalmar hissed. “Can you take anything I’ll give?”

Geralt tried to make a reply, but another rolling thrust sent all his thoughts rattling out of his head. He clutched at the furs under his hands. He didn’t feel the cold anymore. He didn’t feel anything except the heft and weight of Hjalmar’s body, the intense stretch of his cock. “Yeah,” he groaned, skin shivering with sensation.

To his credit, Hjalmar didn’t immediately lose control, working his rhythm up from slow but forceful drives to a faster, shallow strokes. He kneaded Geralt’s ass cheeks in his powerful hands, spreading them even as he thrust. The drag and slide of his shaft sent tremors of dark, hot pleasure rippling from Geralt’s belly through his limbs. His own hard prick scraped against the edge of his tunic as it flapped around. He wanted to grab it and stroke himself off, but he had to use all his strength and concentration to stay upright.

With blurred sight, he met the eyes of Folan, who was still stretched lazily beneath him. Folan’s lips were parted, eyes dreamy and focused over Geralt’s shoulder. He was staring at Hjalmar’s face.

When Hjalmar lost control and started pounding into Geralt like it was a race for his life, Geralt finally had to put his head down. He pushed his face into Folan’s chest and Hjalmar’s wild rhythm rocked them both. Every jolt inside Geralt was a hard punch of raw pleasure. He cried out into Folan’s skin, shaking and blinded.

Above him, Hjalmar let out a bellow like a bull elk and screwed deep, spurting a hot flood inside Geralt. It seemed to go on forever as Hjalmar ground into him, groaning and panting against the back of his neck. Geralt braced against his weight, arms burning with the effort of not collapsing. He feared the collapse of their combined bulk would hurt Folan.

Then Hjalmar reached down, still thrusting lazily into him, and stroked Geralt with a rough hand. It only took a few twists before Geralt was shuddering and spending all over Folan’s thighs. He heard himself snarling garbled curses at the sudden kick of painfully sweet release.

Folan laughed, soft and incredulous. Hjalmar eased off Geralt slowly, slumping into the furs beside Folan. He looked like a poleaxed bull, stunned and unsteady. “Fuck, Witcher,” he murmured. And before Geralt could offer a quip like _“So you did,” _Hjalmar reached out to pull him down into the furs with them.

They all shifted to make space, and Geralt found himself sprawled between the two hairy Skelligers, an old wolf between a rangy hound and a burly bear. Hjalmar pulled a woven blanket over them and a furred hide on top of that. Curled together there, warmth quickly wrapped around them.

“Snug as badgers in a burrow,” Hjalmar murmured. Folan grunted in agreement.

And Geralt, sore and sweaty, and still somewhat confounded by his circumstances, nonetheless slept deeply and soundly through the night.

He woke to Folan stirring as the first glow of gray morning lightened the cave. The archer sat up and ran his hands lightly over his arms, scowling.

Geralt blinked up at him. “Skin still irritated?”

Folan looked surprised to see him awake. “Aye,” he said softly. “Tis difficult to sleep. An’ my clothes chafe.”

Geralt rolled up and got to his feet. “I have burn salve in my pack. I should have offered it to you before, but…”

“I was set on finding Hjalmar,” Folan said. “Then we were battling harpies. Then the giant. Then fucking.”

“Yeah…” Geralt said, swallowing a grin. “Well, I’ll get some for you now.”

He fetched the container from his pack, wincing a little at the ache in his ass. He cast a baleful glance to sleeping Hjalmar, still snoring like a hibernating beast in his nest of bedding.

Shivering with the morning chill on his naked skin, Geralt hurried back to the furs. Kneeling before Folan, he couldn’t help reaching up to run his fingers along the sides of the man’s face and through his russet beard. _So young_, he thought. Already racing off to join his friend on a fool’s errand, knowing it would probably fail.

“I owe you my life,” Folan said gravely. “Won’t forget it.”

Geralt pursed his lips. “I only ask one thing of you. Next time Hjalmar goes barreling off into trouble, don’t follow him. In fact, give him a big fat slap across the face, from me. That’s what you owe me. You’ve got more sense than most glory-chasing Skelliger boys. Use it.”

Folan’s eyes widened with surprise. Then he snorted softly and shook his head. “Where Hjalmar goes, I go. That’s one thing I can’t promise you.”

Geralt sighed and opened the jar of salve. “Well, at least slap him first.”

He moved to Folan’s back and together, he and Folan spread the salve over Folan’s burnt skin. Golden-brown hair covered Folan’s chest and Geralt combed through it softly, rubbing slick fingers around Folan’s nipples. Folan sucked in a quick breath at his ministrations. Then Geralt’s hands moved over his collarbones, over his shoulders and down his long back, spreading the salve.

“Feel better?” he asked Folan, fingers tracing down his spine.

“Aye,” Folan murmured. “The salve cools. But your touch heats me in other ways.”

“That so?” Geralt drawled, hands rubbing the tops of his buttocks. “I hadn’t noticed.” Taking another handful of salve, he reached around to Folan’s front and stroked up his hardening shaft.

Folan gasped and rolled into his hold. “S’good,” he breathed. “But let me touch you too.”

Geralt moved around to face him again. He stroked his hands down Folan’s legs. “Get on top of me. That way you won’t hurt your skin too much.”

He laid back on the furs and Folan eagerly climbed onto his thighs. Their cocks jostled companionably. Folan gave a shaky laugh and nudged them together again. Geralt bit his lip, stomach muscles tightening. The brush of silky skin and rough hair lit up his nerve endings. Their balls pressed together in a heated weight

He let his head fall back at the touch of Folan’s fingers on the base of his cock, trailing up with a light touch. A soft sound from the side made him turn his head. He looked directly into Hjalmar’s wide blue eyes.

Hjalmar’s mouth was open wide. The coverings had slipped down to show his chest and shoulders thickly furred with red hair and moving with quick breaths. Although the woolen blanket still covered his lower body, it was tented impressively over his lap, like a veil over a maypole.

Seemingly oblivious to his friend’s gaze, Folan reached to scoop up some salve. He spread it over Geralt’s erection and then his own. They both sighed appreciatively and the cool, slick sensation tingling on their sensitive skin. Geralt reached back and massaged Folan’s ass gently, pulling him a little closer. If anything, Hjalmar’s devouring gaze was making him hornier.

Their cocks aligned, Folan took initiative and closed his strong hand around them both, rubbing up and down slowly. The friction of his bowstring calluses was exquisite. Geralt found himself straining with the need to thrust up. He growled deep in his throat.

Folan’s spread his thighs wider, breath quickening. The slide of foreskin and the sight of their cockheads poking out of his fist was ridiculously arousing to Geralt. He let himself rock up into Folan’s hold in short thrusts, raking pleasure through his body.

Then Folan’s rhythm faltered and stopped. His head jerked to the side. Hjalmar was climbing to his feet, naked and hard as steel mace. His impressive endowment extended from him at a perfect right angle. It was enough to make Geralt laugh, if he wasn’t already so close to coming.

“Don’ stop,” Hjalmar told Folan. “Make the witcher spill in your hand. He’s near weeping for it.”

Actually, Geralt would have shed a few tears if it meant getting off anytime soon. He caressed Folan’s ass with both hands and gently rocked up. The drag of their cocks against each other seemed to jolt Folan out of his moment of surprise. His hand tightened around them again, making that lovely slick, hot-cold sheath. Folan gave a shuddery moan and returned to fucking them both with his fist.

“Gods be praised,” Hjalmar murmured, starting to stroke his own monster prick. “There’s a sight to get a man’s blood up in the morn.”

Folan locked eyes with Hjalmar and began frigging desperately, arm pumping fast and hard. Geralt felt Folan’s balls drawing up against his. Then his ass tightened in Geralt’s hands and his thighs squeezed against Geralt’s. His spunk shot up between them, spilling over his hand. The sight of his face open with ecstasy nearly made Geralt come too, but Folan’s eyes were not on his.

Hjalmar bent down over Folan and kissed him roughly, a mashing of lips and tangling of beards. Then he stepped back and looked down at Geralt, who was still hard and panting, lying on the furs.

“Finish ‘im.” Hjalmar said. His hand went back to his own cock, stroking faster and faster.

Folan started rubbing Geralt again, spreading his spend over Geralt’s prick and balls. The sound of wet flesh moving together filled the air, mixing with Hjalmar’s hard grunts and Geralt’s hissing breaths. Folan increased his speed and pressure, making Geralt’s balls tighten and his head rush.

Hjalmar loomed over him, pumping himself to match Folan’s pace. And when Hjalmar stretched his neck and roared, he spurted his seed over Geralt’s face and neck. Geralt felt the violent shock of release break through him and he was coming hard, body arching, eyes closed, as hot, thick spend hit his face. His muscles were still rolling with mindless, animal pleasure as the warm spunk slid over his lips and cheek.

Although there were no streams around, there was fresh snow outside the cave to scrub their bodies clean. The two Skelligers seemed to take a certain pride in romping around naked in the snowdrifts, but Geralt was old and practical. He wiped the sweat and come off his skin and hair as best he could, then hurried back to get dressed.

By the time they’d all gotten clothed and put their gear together, it was well into the morning. But Hjalmar did not appear worried about getting a late start.

“The longships are not goin’ away,” he assured them.

“You don’t have ta come with us,” Folan told Geralt. “No doubt you’ve another adventure ta chase. We’ll make our way back with no trouble.”

Geralt considered that. It could be quicker to take a different route to his next quest.

“Don’ be daft,” Hjalmar said. “We’ll all return to Ard Skellig together and me da will reward you and everyone will feast in our honor. Tis the best way.”

“That so?” Geralt asked, smirking.

“Aye,” Hjalmar said. He hummed happily to himself, pulling his pack over his shoulders and onto his back. Then he cast another glance at Geralt, eyes glinting. “Mayhap we’ll take the long way back.”


	11. Stripes (Vernon Roche)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admire Roche's determination and loyalty. You can tell he really cares about his commandos, especially Ves.  
I'll eventually write something for Iorveth, but if you want to read my take on him and Geralt getting it on, I wrote something like eight sex scenes between them in my first Witcher fic (_don't think it will all be fine_).
> 
> CW: sex work, vague mentions of abuse

Stripes

It was a familiar sight—three men gathered around the back of camp tent, bent and sniggering. Walking on the hillside above, Roche stopped and gave them a long look. The fabric of the army tent, adorned with Temerian lilies, was sturdy enough to withstand harsh weather, but, for nimble fingers, the ties were easy enough to loosen and push into a gap. Roche had done it a time or two himself, to eavesdrop on conversations and spy on Henselt’s visitors.

From the grins on the men’s flushed faces he guessed these men had a different purpose. Typically, Roche wouldn’t interfere with the private lives of his troops, but this tent belonged to Ves. She had enough trouble dealing with unwanted attention, and, though he knew she could easily handle herself with the men, he hated the idea of them peeping on her without her knowledge.

As he drew closer, the two men in the back, waiting for their turn, noticed him and scrambled to attention. They were Kaedweni troops, not his men, but they knew he had authority, especially since Ves was Blue Stripes, not one of theirs. One of them tapped the man with his eye to the gap and he straightened as well, gaze sinking to his boots when he glimpsed Roche. The front of his trousers showed a noticeable bulge.

“Find other entertainment in your own camp,” Roche said in a deep, cold voice. “If my men caught you, you’d leave here dragging broken legs.”

The three Kaedweni muttered excuses and stumbled away, even redder than before.

Now, close to the tent, Roche could hear that they had been so intent on spying—moans and gasps and the faint sound of slapping flesh. It wasn’t any of his business, but the Blue Stripes knew they were forbidden from fucking each other. If Ves had brought an outsider into her tent, he’d overlook it, but if he caught her with one of her fellow Stripes, there’d be consequences.

He leaned down and peered through the gap. An oil lamp lent a faint glow to the interior, bronzing bare skin. Ves straddled the man, bucking on top of him with a fervor that surprised Roche. Her short pale hair tossed and clung to her glistening skin. Her back arched, displaying her many blue-black tattoos, and her buttocks pumped against him with each thrust.

Roche squinted at the man beneath her—muscular and scarred, rough hands guiding her hips. The white hair was unmistakable. Witcher. He bit his lip as he rocked up into her, grunting roughly. His powerful thighs bulged and strained. His yellow eyes were intent on her pleasure-wracked face…until they darted down to meet Roche’s.

Startled, Roche jerked backwards with a quick inhalation. He stood there for a moment, listening to the continued noises of their coupling. Ves cursed something breathlessly, then her voice rose to a shout. Roche backed away from the tent, feeling an unfamiliar bloom of heat under his skin and an ache in his groin. Basic, primal reactions he knew, but he’d thought himself beyond that.

Walking away through the thick scratching grass, he tried to shake the images out of his head. The last thing he needed was a carnal distraction at a time like this.

Vizima, city on the edges of the stinking swamps, had no shortage of whores, but there was always room for one more. As long as Vernon remembered, his mother had brought men back to their home. Some were regulars and found their way back easily enough. When Vernon was very young, she shut him in the dusty closet with some wooden toys—a rough-hewn bear and little cart with a missing wheel. He knew if he emerged there’d be a beating. So, he clutched his toys to his chest and listened to the strange sounds of his mother’s work until she opened the door and let him out.

When he grew older, he watched from the cracked door of the closet. If a man became violent or refused to pay, Vernon would emerge and threaten him with a long iron knife. His mother had tried pimps before, but they’d hurt her as much as her clients, if she didn’t bring in enough. So, Vernon was her only protector.

At first, the sight of men grunting and thrusting over her made him sick, but gradually he became numb to it. Her mind had hardened long ago. Sex was business, a transaction to take advantage of men’s ridiculous animal urges. They paid for the chance to groan and slobber themselves to completion and Vernon and his mother could buy bread because of it. The whores that he knew all despised their clients and the pleasure and devotion they faked was just bad playacting. Vernon found it all ridiculous and disgusting. He promised himself he’d never give into that kind of weakness and push himself on a woman.

Outside of thieving and fighting, there were few opportunities for a boy of the streets. But Vernon found a way of making extra coin by running messages and delivering packages discreetly around the Temple Quarter. On one job, he delivered an oilskin parcel to a tall, thin man in a pub who questioned him in depth about the sender. Vernon refused to give up any information and continued to demand payment.

The man adjusted his monocle with a considering look. “You’re a fuckin’ loyal one, ain’t you, lad? Never give up your secrets? Not many urchins would stick to their principles so tightly after I offered extra orens.”

Vernon kept his face impassive. “He said you’d pay me five. That’s all I ask.”

“Aye, here’s your ploughing fee, young master.” The man reached into his purse, then paused. “I may have another job for you, my honorable youngling. I can always use a tight-lipped guttersnipe. Meet me here tomorrow night after the seventh bell.”

And that was how Vernon found himself in the employ of Thaler, foul-mouthed miscreant and versatile spy for the Temerian Secret Service. As he grew older, he earned more and more complex missions and made enough coin that his mother didn’t have to work. By that time, however, she’d sickened, like so many of her friends, and the pain kept her in bed most days. Before he was twenty, she’d died, leaving him the hovel and little else.

After that, it easy to leave the slums and take a room near the palace. He dressed better, washed daily, and practiced speaking well, in the manner of the higher-born. He grew a reputation for efficiency and leadership among the Secret Service. And when King Foltest asked Thaler to supply a chief for a unit of newly assembled commandos, Vernon found himself leading the motley band of warriors known as the Blue Stripes. They weren’t the pristine knights of the king’s guard but they had real combat skills and experience, even if they were rather rough around the edges. They accepted him because he too came from the low, dirty streets, and only expected them to be good soldiers, not saints.

They did the filthy work that the other squadrons avoided. One of their first missions was a raid on the Scoia’tael unit harrying traders near Flotsam. The elven scoundrels had carried on killing and stealing from humans for so long without any real consequences that they were taken by surprise when the Blue Stripes hunted them down. Vernon’s men racked up dozens of kills that day, although they never managed to catch the leader—the one-eyed terror known as Iorveth. A cruel villain who had fought for Nilfgaard in the Vrihedd Brigade, he had somehow escaped the consequences of his treachery. After the war, he’d made a game out of slaughtering his enemies and collecting their badges like trophies that he draped across his chest. Vernon longed for the day he could hang that elf’s scarred head on a wall.

The Stripes were welcome to frequent brothels and pick up locals, as long as they weren’t on a mission. They were forbidden from fucking each other, because jealousies and broken ties were inevitable, Vernon decided, having seen it happen again and again in the Secret Service. It became more complicated when Ves joined the commandos and everyone wanted to have her. Thankfully, Ves didn’t seem to have any interest in the men, even though she made as many crude comments as the rest of them. He believed that she, like Vernon, had mastery over her body and didn’t require the base satisfaction of slapping meat together.

Vernon had never met a woman who truly enjoyed sex, although so many men seemed to believe they did. He knew it was all a farce that women played to get power over the men who wanted to fuck them. The poor fools actually believed their sweaty rutting pleased the unfortunate females under them. Having seen through the illusion, Vernon had no desire to impose his body on anyone. If he had urges, his hand was the most efficient and simple way to relieve them.

So…why had Ves fucked the witcher? It bothered him all afternoon. If she had been faking her reactions, it was an impressive performance. He’d never seen a woman dominate the act so completely. She had held the mutant down and moved over him like he was her ride to master, head thrown back, eyes dark with pleasure.

The rest of the day, Roche focused on his meeting with the Kaedweni nobles, drawing up all the evidence he could muster to make a case against Henselt and his repulsive wizard, Dethmold. Even though Foltest had fallen to an assassin, the plot to undermine Henselt must be carried out. If Temeria was to have any future, they had to leverage Henselt’s lords against him and slow his aggressive advance in the North. The conspiracy brewing in the army camp could bring all their efforts to completion.

Entering the canteen at supper time, Roche’s eyes were drawn to the witcher, Geralt, sitting by himself on the bench, tearing chunks off a heel of bread. Roche thought for a moment, then went to sit beside him.

The yellow serpent gaze shifted to him and a smile twitched at the corners of the witcher’s lips. “Need something, Commander?”

“Why Ves?” Roche asked bluntly. “There is a whole tent of whores just down the hill. You couldn’t be bothered to walk that far?” He could smell the reek of sex on the witcher’s skin, even covered with clothes.

Geralt made a show of chewing slowly, mouth working in a circular motion. He swallowed. “She challenged me to a duel. I won the fight. She invited me to her tent for a drink. We talked, then took off our clothes. You saw the rest.”

Roche narrowed his eyes. “I was making certain my commandos weren’t fornicating together. It’s forbidden in this unit.”

“You really took your time making certain,” the witcher said. His tongue swept out to wipe crumbs off his lips. “I always wondered if you carried a torch for her. You should just tell her.”

“I don’t want Ves,” Roche said, offended at the thought. “The Stripes are my family. It would be incest.”

“Hm,” Geralt hummed, looking thoughtful. “What do you want, then?” He tilted his head, revealing a raised pink bite mark on his pale throat.

“Nothing.” But even as he said it, he felt that spread of heat over his skin. It gathered lower in his body and he was shocked to feel an ache of arousal. “I don’t need that kind of thing.”

Geralt brushed crumbs off his fingers and inevitably, Roche was seeing those strong hands pressed into soft flesh. “Some people aren’t interested in fucking. But I don’t think you’re one of them. You have too much passion and fire to spend it all on scheming. There’s a real beast under that neat uniform, isn’t there?”

The heat crept up Roche’s neck but he just gave a derisive snort. “Regardless of my desires, I don’t have time to waste on carnal pursuits. If you haven’t noticed, my king was murdered and I’m fighting to keep the remnants of my country from the wolves. Ploughing is the last thing on my mind.”

“And how are you sleeping at night, with so much on your mind?” Geralt asked, setting both elbows on the table and clasping his hands together. “You’re wound as tight as a drawbridge crank. I’ve seen corpses on the battlefield that look livelier than you.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Roche demanded. He could feel his pulse jerking in his throat

The witcher rested his chin on hands. “Fucking isn’t just about scratching an itch. Half an hour with me and you’ll be so happy and relaxed, you’ll sleep like a poleaxed ram.”

Roche laughed unevenly. “And how much do you charge for your services, witcher?”

“Nothing, but we can wager if you like.” One knuckle nudged between his lips. “If I lie, you send me into the worst cesspit of intrigue you can think up. If I’m proven true, you go one day without that haughty cloth wrap around your head.”

“You’re amusing,” Roche said darkly. “But I have no need of your bedroom skills. Only your sword arm interests me and I’m sure it will be put to good use soon when I send you into a cesspit of intrigue.”

Geralt’s contemplative expression didn’t change. His inhuman eyes hovered over Roche’s face, perhaps cataloging his reactions. “Whatever pleases you, commander,” he rumbled, knuckle still pressing into his bottom lip like a promise.

Roche spent the rest of the day checking with his allies, unspooling the conspiracy through the camp, compiling reports to sent to Thaler and other spies, and receiving updates on Dethmold’s movements from the soldiers paid to watch him.

If his mind occasionally slipped to visions of the witcher’s mouth and his calculating eyes, he brushed them aside. Once he found himself reading the same lines of a missive over and over again while he pictured himself astride the witcher, like Ves, pinning down that body so heavy with muscle, watching the stubborn warrior submit to him eagerly. He’d had sexual fantasies before, but never so vivid and distracting.

He passed another restless night, gathering a scarce few hours of sleep out of the churning mire in his head. Waking in a gray haze, he pulled himself together for another long day. After a quick breakfast of hard cheese and greasy sausage with a dry slice of bread, it was back to work.

But sometime late in the morning, shouts and hoots drew his attention to the grassy area behind the tents where the Blue Stripes practiced combat. They were louder than usual and he moved toward the throng of onlookers to see what the cause of the excitement was. In the center of the ring of people, Geralt faced off against Silas, a bull of a man with fists like boulders. He threw punches at the witcher like he was trying to splinter a tree in two. In contrast, Geralt ducked and spun and used his hands in precision strikes, to ribs, face, and belly, rattling Silas into a desperate fury of blows.

When the witcher broke Silas’ nose with his elbow and kneed him in the belly, the crowd groaned. Silas staggered and fell to his hands and knees, snorting blood like a beaten dog.

“Another one down,” Ves said. She turned to Roche with a smirk. “He’s finished all challengers, just as he polished off three Kaedweni knights and me yesterday. Where does he find all that stamina?”

Heath scowled. “He’s threatened our honor, sir. The Stripes ‘ave never been defeated. Will you take him on?”

Roche sighed deeply. He did not want to match himself against the formidable mutant. But he had no choice in the eyes of his commandos. He had to fight for their pride.

“Geralt,” he said loudly.

The witcher turned to eye him. A sheen of sweat covered his body, which was bare to the waist. He’d just beaten three elite commandos. Yet, besides his reddened knuckles and the beginnings of a bruise on one cheekbone, he seemed uninjured. Roche did not look forward to facing that.

“Stop throwing my men around like hay bales and face me, if you’re so eager to test the mettle of the Blue Stripes.”

Geralt nodded, the sharp edge of a smile on his mouth.

Roche removed his sword and medallion, but didn’t undress otherwise. He’d washed enough blood and dirt out of his uniform to know it could handle a tumble. Rolling his neck and shoulders, he tried to loosen his muscles and prepare them for the inevitable beating.

They might have been evenly matched in force and speed, but the mutagens gave the witcher an unnatural advantage. He swept under Roche’s swiftest blows and though Roche was no novice at ducking and dodging himself—he had grown up in the rough-and-tumble slums after all—he could not entirely avoid Geralt’s strikes. He did manage to lessen the force of the blows by twisting his body. He even managed to land a few quick hits himself. But it was clear from the onset that the witcher had the upper hand and only a few minutes into the fight, he knocked Roche down with a lightning fast fist to the jaw.

Head ringing, Roche fell backwards. Fenn caught him before he hit the earth hard, but he swayed and stumbled to stay on his feet. The side of his face was ablaze with pain. “I yield,” he said thickly, vision swimming.

The Stripes gave a low cheer. Fenn clapped him on the back. “You lasted longer than the rest of us, which ain’t saying, much.”

They seemed pleased, in a way, to see him beaten. It proved that even the toughest man could fall to a witcher’s fists. And it amused them to see their grim leader taken down a few pegs. Roche tried to take it in stride and remain good-natured about his loss, but the throbbing agony radiating through his jaw to his teeth made him more than a little bitter.

That night in his tent, seated before a map-covered table, he pored over coded correspondence and wrote notes to himself. Every now and then, he dipped a cloth into a bowl of cold water and held it against his jaw. It did little to stop the pain, but the cool touch soothed the burn.

There was a rapping noise on the tent pole by the door and, before he could answer, the tent flap opened and the witcher ducked in. He wore a loose shirt over his trousers, but no armor. He hefted a brown jug in one hand. “May I come in?”

“No,” Roche growled, and the movement of his mouth sent another flash of pain through him. He pressed the cloth against it and gave the witcher his darkest glare.

“Sorry about that,” Geralt said. “I can make you feel better. Termerian Rye and some comfrey and poppy juice.”

Tempting. Roche was deathly stubborn, but not stupid. He didn’t stop glaring, but he did nod slightly, the barest invitation.

The witcher moved to the other seat at the little table and plunked the jug down on top of the map. It made Roche want to rant, but he kept his mouth shut to avoid the pain. He bent to rummage in a box of utensils and brought out a mug.

Geralt’s mouth quirked. “None for me?”

Roche tapped his mug impatiently.

Geralt unstopped the jug and tipped him a few glugs of alcohol. Then he took a vial from his pocket and added some drops of liquid to the mug. “That should ease the worst of it. You know, if you hadn’t come at me so hard, I wouldn’t have had to pop you there. You looked like you were trying to take off my head the way you were swinging.”

Roche sipped the concoction through slightly parted lips. The bite of the rye liquor burned a sweeter fire in his throat and gut. He had an urge to punch the witcher in the chin right then, when he was watching with such smug ease, but he didn’t know if his hit would land. Geralt had a tendency to swerve and strike like a snake, when threatened.

So, Roche silently and steadily drained his mug, hard eyes still raking the witcher’s face. Gradually the pain lessened and the soft glow of intoxication radiated into all his muscles. The witcher picked up the jug and took a long swallow, directly from it. The bruises on his knuckles stood out in stark relief against the handle of the jug.

Roche moved his jaw experimentally, a little pain, but not overwhelming. “You downed me like a poleaxed ram, so I suppose you won your little wager one way or another.”

Geralt frowned. “You know what I meant. I wanted to overcome you with pleasure, not pain. But you always choose the hard road, don’t you, Roche?”

“I didn’t notice any other.” He sounded bitter, but didn’t know how to play these kinds of games. “What do you want from me, witcher? I’m already defeated.”

“You lost a fistfight,” Geralt said. “But you gave near as good as you got. He pulled his shirt off one shoulder and showed a darkening bruise on the left side of his chest. Then he lifted the hem of his shirt to show another purplish flower on his abdomen. “Almost got me in the kidney there.”

Roche remembered the solid impact of muscle against his fists, but it had felt like punching a stump. He hadn’t expected to leave any damage. He shifted in his seat and gave Geralt a wry smile. “You think that’s as good as I got?” He fumbled with the fastenings on his uniform doublet, slowly working it open. Then there was the undershirt to bother with.

Geralt helpfully moved to ease the long sleeves off his shoulders and work the undershirt over his head, pulling his chaperon off in the process.

Roche blinked and absently smoothed down his ruffled hair with one hand. He pointed to the quartet of roundish blurs of color on his chest and abdomen. “You hit me twice as much! If you wanted to spare me your strength you have a strange way of going about it.”

Geralt reached out and smoothed the edge of one bruise with his fingertips barely brushing it. The soft touch trailed tiny sparks of sensation. “If I hadn’t pulled my punches, you’d be dead now, not bruised.”

Roche scoffed and batted his hand away. “I suppose I should thank you then.” Bareheaded and bare-chested, flushed with the contents of his drink, he felt vulnerable sitting there with the witcher leaning over him.

“I have salves,” Geralt said quietly. “They will dull the pain.”

“The pain is nothing,” Roche claimed. “I’ve been thrown down stairs, flogged, stabbed, and beaten within an inch of my life. If you think a few knocks will put me out, you don’t know me at all.”

Geralt cocked his head and Roche had a strange desire to sink his fingers into the coarse white hair and force his head, down close. The witcher regarded him for a long moment. Then he took another long drink from the jug. “You could tell me.” He gestured with the jug toward Roche’s cup.

Roche shook his head. He didn’t like to get drunk and he already felt a little fuzzy from the combination of alcohol and herbs. He couldn’t quite figure out why the witcher was still there. “What do you want, Geralt? Don’t bullshit me.”

“I could make a list,” Geralt said, brushing at the papers on the table. His strange eyes fastened on Roche’s face again. “There are so many different things. Shall we start with licking?”

“Licking?” Roche said sharply, even as his balls tightened and ached. “Why?”

“For pleasure, for entertainment, for stress relief…” the witcher leaned in closer. His fingers dropped down and rested on the waist of Roche’s trousers, tracing the line of skin there.

Roche inhaled hard, belly tightening, breath stuttering. He felt a moment of fury at his own unconscious reaction. But the witcher’s mouth was close to his and when it opened, Geralt’s tongue touched lightly to Roche’s bottom lip. It was red and hot and slick, sliding across to the swollen, bruised flesh on his jaw. The low burn of pain had an inexplicable effect on Roche’s cock. It filled and twitched to high alert.

No doubt the witcher felt the movement under his fingers because his hand slid lower to form a crude cup. Roche’s traitorous body thrust happily into it and he groaned.

Somehow it, was becoming harder and harder to do what he must—throw the witcher out of his tent and regain some of his surrendered pride. He couldn’t respect himself if he was so easily seduced by the mutant who had just fucked Ves the day before. Beside there was work to do…if only the hungry animal inside him would listen and stop pushing into the witcher’s touch.

“Roche, stop thinking,” Geralt ordered, with smooth warmth in his voice. “You’re fine. You’re safe. Calm down.” He ran his tongue briefly down Roche’s chin. “I’ll take care of you.”

No one took care of Roche. He’d looked out for himself since he was old enough to walk. He didn’t know how to let go of that responsibility. But he was tired and the witcher was strong. He seemed to know what he was doing. Slowly, haltingly, Roche breathed out and let the tension run out of his muscles. He felt Geralt’s pleased hum against his unbruised cheek.

Geralt unfastened Roche’s trousers and slid a hand inside, caressing him through his small clothes. It felt exquisite, made his toes curl in his boots. _Didn’t make sense_, he thought,_ just another hand_, but his breath came in fast gasps as he squirmed closer. “Tie the door shut,” he said harshly, before his wits fled him entirely.

The witcher obeyed, rising and moving to knot the rope tightly across the tent flap. Then he went back to Roche and hoisted him smoothly out of his chair, hands hooked under his armpits. Roche stiffened automatically, but forced himself to let the witcher maneuver him to the cot. Retorts and demands were climbing up his throat, but pushed them down. He lay down on his belly, as the witcher directed, arms curled under him to keep his full weight off his bruised chest. The blue blanket on the cot was rough against his bare skin, but it just made him burn hotter.

He felt the witcher’s tongue low on his back, tracing down his spine. Then hands pulled his trousers down so the tongue could lick the divot above his buttocks. Roche bit back a moan, but he couldn’t keep his hips from rocking into the cot, rubbing his full cock there for any bit of friction. Then his trousers were pulled lower, over his ass and down his thighs. Large, heavy hands kneaded his buttocks through the cloth of his smallclothes.

Roche turned his head to demand that the witcher get on with it even as his ass clenched hungrily under the pressure of those strong palms. Then the witcher’s face pressed there, the point of his nose pushing cloth into the crevice. His hot breath moistened the fabric, stuck it to Roches skin. Suddenly, Roche couldn’t speak. He made a high, inarticulate sound like a wordless plea. It mortified him so much he turned his burning face away.

Fingers rolled his smallclothes to bunch at his knees with his trousers. His freed cock scraped against the blanket. Roche stifled another humiliating nose and shook with the effort to stay still. The witcher’s mouth descended again, licking and sucking at the meat of one buttock before scraping his teeth over it. He repeated this on the other side until Roche was panting and grinding into the cot. His cock smeared liquid against his belly and into the blanket.

Then both hands parted Roche’s tingling ass cheeks and Geralt licked a long line down his crevice to the tight hole there. Fire banked Roche’s face and chest. A twisted act of perverts and freaks. But sharp edge of shame only made him harder and the fleshy tongue teasing him there caused all his thoughts to drift to pieces like wisps of smoke.

Roche moaned helplessly, felt the witcher’s hot, wet breath inflaming him. That insistent tongue pressed deeper, working inside. His fingers continued rubbing and squeezing Roche’s buttocks. Thick saliva lubricated the movement of Geralt’s face, the drag of his nose and the greedy slurp of his lips. He fucked Roche shallowly with his tongue, driving him to shuddering madness.

Roche’s head swam with heat but it wasn’t enough. He whined into the blanket and tried to rub his cock harder into the rough surface. Then Geralt’s mouth was gone and his hands were on Roche’s back and hip, turning him over. Roche shifted his weight so that he lay flat on his back. His prick stood straight up, like a good soldier. He stared up at Geralt’s face into his fierce golden eyes.

Through the haze of arousal, Roche hissed, “Finished already?”

“Still working on the licking,” Geralt said in a gravelly voice. He reached down and pulled off Roche’s boots, then dragged off his rumpled trousers and smallclothes. When Roche was totally bared, Geralt climbed onto the cot, straddling Roche’s legs and bent his mouth to Roche’s very eager cock.

Roche couldn’t hold back the long, hissing breath whistling out of him. His fingers dug into the cot as the touch of Geralt’s tongue rubbed over the head of his cock, licking seed out of the slit so thoroughly that more beaded there for him to lap. Roche’s balls ached for release. He pushed his cockhead up the flat of Geralt’s tongue. With a huff of amusement, Geralt closed his mouth around it and sucked hard enough to make Roche’s eyes roll back in his head.

“Fuck me,” Roche groaned, like a shameless whore. He felt out of his head desperate for it.

The pressure of Geralt’s mouth eased off him and when Roche could focus enough to glare at him, Geralt had two of his fingers stuck in his own mouth. He removed them, glistening with his spit. Then he blessedly bent to suck on Roche’s cock again, drawing him back into the heady pool of bliss. The blunt tip of a finger nudged between his buttocks and rubbed against his hole. He was still slick from Geralt’s tongue and the finger slid in easy, stroking him from the inside. The moment of discomfort dissolved as Geralt’s mouth descended, taking him deeper.

Then a second finger pushed in, stretching him wider. Roche squeezed around the intruders uncertain if he wanted them, but the suction on his dick took all his concentration. He hardly felt the stretch anymore, rocking into that perfect place. The brush of fingers deep inside him triggered something primitive and wild. It snapped through his body like a whip. He swore lengthily, disoriented, and then the fingers worked him again, fucking him deep while Geralt moaned and bobbed on his cock.

Roche could do nothing but ride the avalanche thundering over him. His hips snapped up, his shoulders stiffened and his head fell back. The lilies on the roof of the tent above faded out with his failing vision. He shot hard into Geralt’s throat in stuttering strokes and the witcher drank him down.

When Roche could see again, Geralt was leaning over him, raised up on his knees, trousers open, stripping his thick cock in one hand. Head back, throat exposed, he looked like a man in the throes of triumphant debauchery. The bite mark on his neck had already started to fade. Geralt panted loudly, tendons in his throat standing out. Then his come arced out in long streams, streaking Roche’s belly. He couldn’t account for the glow of satisfaction it spread through him.

The witcher dropped his head to study his handiwork. “Stripes,” he said with an infuriating smirk. He traced a finger through the mess, drawing wider lines over Roche’s belly and chest.

Roche wanted to get angry. He’d find a biting insult to fling. But it got lost along the way in the thick, sweet sap running through his body. His eyes were drifting closed. All his limbs were warm jelly. Even Geralt’s fingers playing on his skin couldn’t keep him awake. His head held nothing but a blank fog of hazy clouds.

Somewhere, someone wiped him clean and folded the blanket over him. The rest was lost to the mists.

Morning found Roche waking surprisingly refreshed, except for the return of pain to his jaw. Still, his mind felt clear as a mountain stream and no heaviness weighed down his frame. The light sifting in through the canvas told him that had slept too late.

He rose and pulled on his crumpled clothes, stretching the sleep out of his muscles. Outside the tent, the Blue Stripes were going about their business, chatting, sharpening swords, cleaning armor, training in the empty spaces.

They looked up as he passed, gazes tracking him. Silas grinned widely and Roche wondered for a moment if the whole camp knew what he’d been up to with the witcher. But then he felt the wind ruffle the roots of his hair, cooling his scalp.

“Don’t think I even knew what color your hair was,” Silas said, eyes crinkling above his swollen nose. “You look more human without the head-cloth. No offense, sir.”

Roche fought back the impulse to stiffen and lob a sharp response. He also resisted the desire smooth his hair down. “Once in a while I allow myself an informal appearance.”

Silas nodded. “We know you have to dress like a popinjay to please the dukes and lords. But none of them’re here. With us you can be yourself.”

Roche wasn’t entirely sure who he was outside of his service to Temeria. He’d served as an intelligent weapon for so long that when he had to take control and make decisions—such as whether to free a witcher accused of murdering his king—he was surprised to find that he had the will to defy authority. He trusted that he’d made the right choice in the end. Geralt had become a useful ally, but even more, he showed Roche a different way of thinking—cutting through the webs of politics like a blunt blade. In many ways Roche envied him.

Standing just outside the camp, looking at the flags of Temeria fluttering in the wind, Roche allowed himself to feel the breeze on his bare head and neck. He drank in a rare moment of freedom, knowing he’d soon have to sink his hands deep into the mire, weaving and pulling at the fragile threads of power once again. The wheels of the world rolled on, and Vernon Roche toiled to direct their paths.


	12. Scenes from a Ruin (Olgierd)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finished writing _City of Enchantment_, so I can devote a little more time to writing one-shots for this collection, when I'm not working on other projects. I'm aiming for 2-3 posts per month. Let me know if there are any pairings you are craving!
> 
> Olgierd is a complicated character and it's hard to forgive him for what he did, but he suffered enormously for his bargain. I think Geralt would give him a second chance to do something better with his life.
> 
> CW: brief violence and suicidal thoughts

**Scenes from a Ruin**

The horse thunders beneath Olgierd, flying down the track. Its hooves throw up clods of dirt and grass. Its breath comes in hard snorts. As they round the final post, Olgierd risks a glance back over his shoulder and see Vlodimir six lengths behind, face scrunched into a determined grimace. He’ll never make up the distance between them.

Olgierd’s horse sails past the sapling frame with the strips of colored cloth marking the finish line. Whoops and cheers rise from the Redanians watching. Olgierd reins in his mount and slows to a trot as Vlodimir comes plummeting after him.

“Good race, brother,” Olgierd calls to him, heart radiant in his chest. His face feels tight with the glare of the sun and the rush of the wind. His palms are sore with the bite of the reins. He pats his horse’s sweaty neck and slides off the broad back.

“Good for _you_,” Vlodimir says, snorting. “I’ll catch you yet, you red-headed devil. I swear your steed was sired by the wind, no earthly stallion.”

“Better luck next race,” Olgierd suggests, unable to banish the grin that stretches his face wide. “Come now, I’ll buy you a pint for condolence.”

_The Temerians swarmed down over the hillside like a pack of wolves. They killed as they came and Olgierd found himself battling just to keep swords and pikes out of his belly. From the corner of his eye, Vlodmir’s blue tunic moved back and away._

_Olgierd could only watch as the Termerian swordsmen caught his fleeing brother and skewered him there on the muddy earth. Vlodimir fell like a sack of grain, face into the torn ground. The soldier who’d downed him pulled the long spear out of Vlodimir’s back and thrust it into the base of his neck._

_A howl of rage and grief ripped through Olgierd. He fought like a demon, striking down the damned Temerians left and right. The rain plastered his hair to his skull and blood stuck his clothes to his skin._

_Afterwards his raiders spoke of his berserk rage in cutting through the soldiers. They said the death of his brother had lit a holy fire of revenge in his breast. But Olgierd knew the truth. He hadn’t killed his brother’s murderers. He was the murderer._

_“Your brother or your love,” the soft-eyed demon had demanded. “I will be paid.”_

Iris is a lily at midnight, a milk-skinned beauty with thick black hair and huge dark eyes. When those eyes are on him, time slows and nothing matters. Her touch is light, a leaf brushing his wrist, her fingers blades of grass against the back of his hand. Her soft voice uncurls something deep inside him.

The first time he hears her laugh, it’s startling—sudden and rollicking and real. She covers her mouth and her face turns pink. He wants nothing more than to make her laugh again. Laugh and smile and squeal with joy.

_Iris slumped down the cold stone wall, sliding to sit on the floor. The pale skin on her face showed the red mark of his hand. Tears glittered in her eyes, but her gaze seemed strangely blank. Shadows under her eyes made them darker than ever before. He could see the glow of life inside her sinking down, guttering toward extinguishment._

_He only wished he could care._

It’s a dull existence of blood and fire and death. There’s no pain, no sorrow, no bitterness. No sweetness either. Everything is ashes. The world turns in shades of gray and black. What is the point of living when you are numb to everything? Where is the heavy oblivion of death? The reaper took everyone, but wouldn’t take him. Instead he is trapped here in an endless cycle of nothingness. He can’t even summon regret. It’s a long walk through cold water, losing all feeling and meaning. Still he walks, on and on and on.

It may have been seconds or years—time has lost meaning to him. But the witcher disappeared with the demon, and Olgierd waits, waits for his fate with naught but dull resignation. No one wins the devil’s games. It was brave of the witcher to challenge him for Olgierd’s soul. Brave but idiotic. Now the sly Man of Mirrors will capture them both.

The sun begins to sink toward the valley, lighting up the stones around him. And gradually the colors seep in: golden yellow, red, pink, shades of violet. He can’t remember the last time he saw them—the warm hues of a sunset. Iris always painted as quickly as she could to catch the horizon before darkness closed in. Her dashes of color streaked and blended, seeping together.

Sensations creep into his body—the warmth of the sun, the crisp clean smell of the air, the songs of distant birds. Swallows are swooping off the rocks, diving for the flies that rise in the twilight air. Somewhere nearby, a bat chirps.

He can feel the sore spot on his heel where his boot chafes and the ache in his wrist from the time he broke it falling from a horse. The musty scent of the fallen temple is here too, with the sad-eyed statues broken on the ground. The wave of grief rolls over him at last, so long walled away: Iris fading away like a flower shut up in darkness, Vlodimir screaming in the mud as the spear sank into him.

It’s too much, trying to hold all the beauty and horror of the world as it comes flooding back. He doesn’t deserve to breathe the fresh air or watch the sun burn the clouds gold or listen to the courting call of the birds. For the first time in a long time, he can truly live. For the first time in a long time, he can truly die.

Geralt appears, back from the dead, pale faced and a little unsteady, but quietly triumphant. Olgierd offers him a flask of sour wine and they sit and drink it together until the witcher is ready to talk. The ugly red mark of the demon has disappeared from the side of his face. He looks so different without it.

The wine is vile, but the strong taste of it is somehow invigorating. It slides over his tongue and throat and the caustic scent of it rises into his nose.

Geralt tells him of his race to find and destroy the mirror in the twisted dreamscape that the demon created. Olgierd listens, trying to think of any way he could possibly thank the man who risked everything for someone who deserved nothing. All of his words are shallow and meaningless.

When he gives his saber to the witcher, it is the last remaining piece of himself, payment on a debt he can never repay. As the witcher takes it from him, the edge of the blade cuts a shallow slice over Olgierd’s palm.

The pain shocks him. It’s strangely beautiful, like lightening in a summer field. Blood wells up from under his skin. He stares at it, transfixed. How many times has he been cut in the decades since? And yet, it never felt like this.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says. “Damn, that’s sharp.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Olgierd tells him. His wound doesn’t instantly close, like it did before. The blood is warm and bright. It has a rich smell. He lifts his palm to his mouth and licks it. The taste is metal and water.

“How is it?” the witcher says bemusedly, watching him with an odd look.

“Incredible,” Olgierd tells him truthfully.

Geralt reaches out and takes his hand, examining the cut. “I have ointments and bandages.”

The sensation of his touch is startling. The softened leather of his gloves against the back of Olgierd’s hand raises goose flesh up Olgierd’s arm. He sucks in a quick breath. How long has it been since he felt contact with another?

Geralt’s eyes study his face. “Are you all right?”

“No,” Olgierd says, wanting to pull away, and wanting to push into him at the same time. He curls his injured hand into a fist and a trickle of blood runs down, wetting the witcher’s glove.

There’s a moment where his eyes meet Geralt’s and the resonance of light in those golden irises sparks a heady realization. The feast is laid before him. The door is open wide.

Geralt lifts Olgierd’s hand and licks the sticky patch of blood caught in the furrows of his skin. It fills Olgierd’s body with a rush of crackling possibilities. Geralt’s mouth moves to his wrist, sucking the vulnerable place there. His eyes remain fixed on Olgierd’s. Slowly, he mouths up his forearm to the inside of his elbow, just below the tuck of his sleeve.

_In a dim room of the estate, Adela pricked a needle into Olgierd’s chest. She had worked for nearly an hour, tattooing a black boar on his left pectoral. Her own hands and arms were patterned with stars and snakes and winding shapes, a testament to her skill. She had done tattoos for most of the Wild Ones and had determined that it was Olgierd’s turn to join them._

_He had no objections, and no interest either. It was another way to pass the endless days. Lounging there on the low couch, arms draped across its back, he felt himself sinking into the darkness. The two candles lighting the room cast shivering shadows._

_The neck of Adela’s shirt was cut from her collarbones to her belly, revealing a generous portion of rosy bosom. She caught his gaze on her and smirked up at him. But the sight did nothing to rouse him. He might as well be looking at a sack of flour. The jabs of her needle were distance pressure with no bite. Black ink beaded up on his skin as though his flesh were weeping sin._

_When she finished and wiped him clean, revealing the stout boar on a field of reddened skin, he grunted his thanks._

_“Perhaps you’d like another service as well, Ataman,” she suggested silkily, running her hands over his thighs._

_He parted his legs obligingly and she worked nimble fingers to unfasten his trousers and pull out his flaccid cock. But even as she rubbed him to a hardness and lowered her head to suck, he felt nothing. It was as though he were watching her pleasure another man’s body. Her enthusiasm flowed over him like water on stone, leaving him cold and unmoved._

It’s overwhelming, yet he craves each touch like a starved man. Their bodies crash together in a fury, hands clutching, stroking, pulling at clothes. He lifts his head and kisses Geralt without thought. He tastes of the cheap, sharp wine. Their teeth knock together. Their beards scrape. Their lips mash with a bruising force. The pain rachets up the need bursting out of Olgierd. He moans into Geralt’s mouth, feels the answering hitch of breath.

Geralt’s hand pushing under layers of clothes, splays over the small of Olgierd’s back, lighting a streak of fire up his spine. Olgierd’s hips roll into Geralt’s rasping a painful, wonderful friction. Geralt’s mouth slides off his, up his jaw, to the lobe of his ear. He sucks the gold ring into his mouth, winds his tongue around it. His teeth scrape the skin of Olgierd’s ear. Olgierd can’t stop the noise he makes, shuddering with the sensation.

Then they are moving like drunken beasts, trying to tear off clothing and push into each other at the same time. They stumble and sink to the dusty earth, still grappling. Olgierd writhes against Geralt, mad with the feeling of it all. He’d wandered through a drought for so long, he forgot how much he’d needed this. The craving is a leaping forest fire inside him.

They grunt and grind together until Geralt’s forceful hands work himself free of belt and trousers. Quickly, he yanks down Olgierd’s trousers as well. The shock of bare skin is electrifying. They thrust against each other, panting. It’s rough and messy but they can’t slow. Olgierd feels the peak rising inside him, feeling himself racing for it. His eyes roll back in his sockets and he groans like a dying animal. Gold bursts inside his head, streaks through his body. His seed erupts between them and his hips stutter.

Gods, how long has it been? His body vibrates with the continuing waves of awareness, still ringing with pleasure.

Geralt continues to thrust against Olgierd’s hip, pulling him closer. His body jerks a tight, harsh rhythm until he jerks with a low cry, spilling between them. After a few long, quaking breathes, he eases away from Olgierd to lie on his back. The heavens spin above them. The curve of the moon is a white blur in the darkening sky.

“Well,” Geralt says. But he doesn’t say anything after that. They stare up at the emerging stars, the shimmer of far-away worlds.

Olgierd should be cold, but his body is still thrumming with the joy of life. It isn’t his right to have this, after the deal he struck. He should be sizzling in the depths of hell. But he isn’t.

The witcher gets up at last and goes to his horse, takes off his pack, and rolls out his bedding. Olgierd finally finds the presence to pull himself up. He watches Geralt strip off his clothes and lie down. Geralt’s scars rival his own. There’s a smear of drying blood on his face and neck where Olgierd dragged his cut hand. In the falling light, Geralt is fading into a gray shape, but his bright eyes are like a night creature’s, gleaming and patient.

“Come here,” he says in a level tone.

_When Iris painted, Olgierd wondered at scenes that lived inside her head. She seemed to see everything in a haze of brilliant colors and blurred edges. How soothing it would be to live inside her art, that safe, beautiful world without sharp lines, where nothing went awry. There were no debts or contracts or deaths inside those landscapes—just lovely light falling on gardens and houses and people. He wanted to give her everything she yearned for. In the end, he gave her nothing but suffering._

_A part of him had hoped that when the deal was broken, the demon banished, he might return to a time before, and have another chance to do it all again. But there was no going back. In this bent and broken world…he lived on. His heart beat hard and fierce, his body ached, and his mind twisted between exhilaration and despair._

Olgierd lies on his front, stretched out on the woolen bedroll. The ridges of the earth are hard beneath him. The witcher’s hands slide down his back, gliding over his ribs. He feels a hot huff of breath on his shoulder before teeth close on the flesh there. The bite sends a sweet shock through his body. Tongue and lips lave the sore skin. Then the witcher bites him on the other shoulder, drawing a harsh sound from his throat. Once again, Geralt’s mouth soothes the bitten skin.

“Hungry?” Olgierd asks him, voice rough with amusement and desire.

“Yes,” Geralt says. His stiff cock slides against the base of Olgierd’s spine. “Are you sated?” He bites the back of Olgierd’s neck like a challenge.

Olgierd groans into the bedroll. “No,” he breathes. “Perhaps I never will be.”

“Let’s try,” Geralt murmurs. The blunt points of his nails scrape Olgierd’s hips and Olgierd’s skin is a sea of prickling heat. Geralt’s cock rubs between his buttocks. “Let me fuck you.”

Olgierd makes an incoherent sound. He never has before. He was always the plunderer, the lusty lad beloved by women. But no longer. It’s too much, here on the edge, broken down and wanting. His body throbs at the thought of yielding, opening to another, feeling everything. “Aye,” he grunts.

Waiting for the pressure and hurt is strangely thrilling. The strong fingers inside him are slicked with oil, but still stretch him to a burn. It smolders in his center, loosening his muscles and stiffening his cock. He’s never been pierced this way, lying without speech, falling into another place.

Geralt’s hands go to Olgierd’s hips, pulling him up till he gets his knees under him. When at last the thick head of an oiled cock presses inside him, it’s a dizzying relief. Pain he knows, but this filling is more. Geralt holds his hips, mounts him. Eventually he starts to move.

The slide of the cock inside him is too careful, too slow, a teasing torture. “Harder,” he tells Geralt, feeling sweat run down his neck.

“Easy, now,” Geralt hisses, but his hips snap with more force, working Olgierd open, driving him out of his head.

The woolen blanket rucks up beneath them as Olgierd jerks forward with each thrust. The night is cool but he is not. His chest is a red furnace. His skin is molten silver. All he can hear is the thunder of blood in his ears, the slap of flesh, and the harsh rhythm of their gasps, straining for air.

“Fuck,” Geralt moans, voice breaking. His cock batters Olgierd relentlessly. His nails dig into Olgierd’s hips.

Olgierd lowers his head and lets the force of blinding pleasure break over him again. He spends on the bedroll in jerky thrusts, without ever touching himself. The sheer intensity of it brings unfamiliar tears to his eyes.

Geralt makes a garbled sound and pushes him down, grinding deep into him. His seed pulses hot into Olgierd’s innards. His movements slow, then stop. He pants into Olgierd’s hair for a moment, then rolls off him. Olgierd unfolds himself slowly and they sprawl side by side, arms and thighs pressed together. Red hair against smooth skin.

Olgierd feels raw and wild. An unaccountable elation wells up from somewhere. The ache inside him is real, as is the bitten skin on his shoulders and neck, his bruised lips, and the blanket of lingering bliss covering him. He feels it all.

Sometime in the night, he wakes and winds around Geralt again. They move together slowly, building their desire. Then Geralt spits in his palm and reaches between them. The stars waver and blur above them before blazing out behind Olgierd’s eyes.

In the morning, Olgierd rolls on top of Geralt, straddling him.

Geralt just laughs hoarsely. “Again?” he says. “I’ll satisfy you yet.”

Perhaps he will. Olgierd doesn’t really care. He’d thought that when the sun rose, he’d walk away and find a way to die without any pretense of valor. He has no right to anything more.

But this man fought for him, bargained for his life, and reminded him how hot the fire in a body could burn. Perhaps he will live, then, though he doesn’t yet know where or how.

Muscle and bone and scars stretch beneath him. Geralt’s flesh is warm under his palms. The sun heats Olgierd’s disheveled hair and the back of his neck. For now, there’s this—coupling in the ruins of a fallen temple, coming together in the wreckage wrought by time.


	13. Superior Steel (Éibhear Hattori)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote 3000 words about a character who is basically a glorified _Kill Bill_ reference and it made me crave hot, crispy gyoza so, so bad.

_To a witcher, a sword is like a lover. He must caress it, care for it, devote some time to it each night. But as with lovers, there are times one comes across a specimen so superior and not one's own that one cannot help but consider replacing the old with the new. Geralt was fully aware of these principles, so when he heard about the legendary swordsmith named Hattori, a tingle ran down his spine, butterflies took flight in his stomach, and he resolved to find this craftsman._

-The (actual!) journal entry for the mission “Of Swords and Dumplings”

  


CW: If you’re tired of swords=penises analogies, better skip this one

  


The scent caught Geralt’s attention first. Not the acrid smoke of heated metal and furnaces belching heat. Not the smell of blade oil and cured leather. The shop of the supposedly great swordsmith wafted out scents of spiced meat, warm dough, and heated oil.

Geralt inhaled a deep lungful and his mouth filled with saliva. His stomach rumbled hopefully. He pushed open the door and the savory odors embraced him.

A sturdy elven man was bending over a hot iron plate, nudging plump dumplings with a flat metal tool. Hearing the door, he straightened and turned, greeting Geralt with a welcoming smile. He had dark hair tied back in a short tail and a rugged face with lines around his eyes. He wore a leather apron over rust-colored trousers and a sleeveless green shirt that revealed his broad shoulders. The bracers on his muscled forearms were threaded with quality cured deer gut. He did not look like a cook.

“I’ll have a fresh batch of Redanian dumplings ready in a minute,” the elf said. “They’re best eaten hot.” His eyes swept quickly over Geralt and his eyebrows shot up. “Blimey! A _vatt’ghern_ in the flesh!”

Geralt nodded and extended a hand. “Geralt of Rivia.”

The elf shook it with a powerful grip. “Éibhear Hattori. Best dumplings in Novigrad.” He released Geralt’s hand and turned quickly back to the griddle. “Sorry, I don’t want to burn these.” He scooped the dumplings off the plate and into a wooden bowl. In a smooth motion, he presented them to Geralt. “On the house, if you’ll tell me about those blades on your back. Mahakaman steel, yes? And where did you get the silver?”

Geralt took the proffered bowl. It smelled sublime. “That’s the subject I was hoping to discuss with you.” He picked up a hot, oily dumpling and popped it in his mouth. The soft dough with its crispy bottom parted easily under his tongue. A symphony of tastes filled his mouth: juicy ground pork, pungent onion, garlic, celery salt, fresh pepper, and a hint of tangy vinegar. He closed his eyes to take it all in, chewing slowly to savor.

Was this elf an expert at everything he set his mind to? Geralt swallowed and opened his eyes to see Éibhear Hattori beaming at his reaction, pleasure practically radiating off him. “It’s delicious,” Geralt admitted. He stuffed another one into his mouth and chewed it a little faster. The wave of flavor hit him again and his stomach gurgled happily.

“I can also make some spicy Zerrikanian dumplings with lambs’ meat or perhaps you’d prefer the ground chicken with shallots and green onions. It’s a favorite at the university in Oxenfurt.”

Geralt chewed quickly and swallowed the second dumpling. He set the bowl down on a nearby table with reluctance. “Those sound incredible, but I’m really here to talk about swords.”

Éibhear’s face fell. “Unfortunately, I don’t craft any longer. That was another life.” He tilted his head. “But I kept a small collection of my favorites, if you’d like to see them.”

He brought Geralt upstairs to a room ornamented with swords, daggers, axes, gauntlets, helmets, and breastplates. Geralt stopped and stared, taking in the array of master-crafted metal. He moved in close to examine the unblemished sheen of a heavy hauberk, then ran his finger down the length of a flawless blade, marveling at its beauty. “Can I hold one?”

“Please,” Éibhear said eagerly. “That one isn’t the right balance for you, try this harvall.” He pulled a long blade off the rack on the wall and extended the hilt to Geralt.

Geralt took it, felt the weight in his hand. When he moved it, the air seemed to sing. He felt almost giddy with excitement. A master swordsmith like this could create unparalleled weapons. If Geralt brought him witcher diagrams, he could forge the greatest blades any witcher had ever seen.

“I haven’t crafter silver in forever,” Éibhear said with a note of longing. “I once made a silver blade for a witcher from the school of the cat and he used it to slay the ancient forktail that guarded Dragon’s Peak.”

“Really?” Geralt said, still sweeping the blade for the sheer joy of its performance. “That must have been near a hundred years ago.”

Éibhear shrugged. “Yes, I’ve been making swords for three hundred years.”

“But you don’t anymore.” Geralt returned the hilt of the blade to him, looking into his bright hazel eyes. “You only make dumplings now?”

“It’s a troubling story,” Éibhear said. He set the harvall back on the rack with a sigh. “The truth is, making dumplings is easier, more profitable, and less likely to result in murder. There is a simple pleasure in making food that people enjoy. It doesn’t make my heart rejoice like the forging of a great blade, but it’s a better fate than many of my people enjoy.”

“So, folks aren’t buying your blades because you’re an elf?” Geralt asked, confused. His palm twitched to feel the sword hilt again.

“Come sit with me and I’ll tell you the whole sorry tale.”

Downstairs in the shop, they settled at a table, consuming the rest of the dumplings in the bowl while Éibhear explained Ernst van Hoorn’s embargo on metal-working materials, the pressure from Cleaver’s gang, and accusations of being a havekar—a supplier for the dreaded Scoia’tael rebels.

Unfortunately, Éibhear’s story kept getting interrupted as customers entered to buy dumplings. The shop was quite popular, and it seemed as soon as the elf finished one batch, another two or three more people would wander in, requesting dumplings stuffed with mashed potatoes and cheese served on pickled cabbage, or steamed dumplings with vegetables and seasoned meat topped with a tangy cream.

Geralt found himself helping out by bringing dishes and ingredients from the pantry. He even started chopping onions at one point. He’d do whatever it took to get Éibhear’s trust and convince him to start making swords again. Suffice to say, Geralt really, _really_ wanted one of those swords.

Finally, the stream of business subsided enough that they could talk again. Geralt wiped down tables while Éibhear washed dishes. “I haven’t met many elven blacksmiths,” Geralt said. “Usually it’s the dwarves that are known for the metal-working.”

“Elves need weapons too. In my youth, every city in the land had at least one elven master swordsmith.” Éibhear set a pan in the drying rack. “But then the humans took over. It’s difficult to maintain forges when you’re scattered over the land and chased into the mountains. Blue Mountain steel is still well known. The ore there is of the highest quality, but the craftsmanship is often lacking. And don’t get me started on these humans who think they can smith.”

“What’s wrong with humans?” Geralt asked. “They can learn from the masters.”

“Humans don’t live long enough to truly master a craft. They don’t have the time to make a thousand mistakes before perfection. They don’t have the patience to fold the metal dozens of times. By the time they’re forging decent blades, they’re too elderly to hold a hammer. No, you need the dwarves and elves to make your weapons.”

Geralt smiled. “Have you ever taken an apprentice?”

Éibhear snorted. “And have a novice bumbling in my work? All it takes is one second of hesitation and the steel is too cool to shape. One tremor of the arm and the metal is flawed beyond repair. I make the best, and I only trust myself to do it.”

Geralt dropped his damp rag into the wash bucket and surveyed the clean counters and tables. “You ever miss forging? It must have been pretty rewarding to see heroes running around with the weapons you made.”

“Of course, I miss it,” Éibhear grumbled. He dried his hands on a towel and turned to Geralt. “Sometimes I still hear the clang of my hammer on the hot blade, like the ringing of a bell. Sometimes I feel the glorious blaze of the fore and see the pump of the bellows. And the feeling when I drew a shining new blade still smoking from the water bath…there’s nothing like it in all of existence.” He sighed deeply and reached up to a shelf for a bottle. “Here, help me finish off the leftover dumplings and this pepper vodka. It’s the least I can give you for your help.”

“Can’t say no to free food and booze,” Geralt said, eyeing the pan of fat little dumplings with anticipation.

They sat and ate and talked and drank the pepper vodka—which went surprisingly well with the savory dumplings. Éibhear could speak endlessly about the different methods for crafting metal for symmetry, resilience, and beauty. He had an intense devotion to the work that Geralt appreciated.

“What is it going to take to get you back in business?” Geralt asked at last. “You want me to talk to Cleaver and try to get his gang to stop hassling you? Maybe I can find another supplier for your materials?”

Éibhear looked anxious. “I’ve already spoken with some representatives from the King of Beggars about getting supplies. Cleaver’s dwarves can’t stop them. But I’m unsure about the whole endeavor. I’m not a fighter, Geralt. I make weapons but I don’t use them. And I certainly don’t want to risk being branded a Scoia’tael. Perhaps it’s better to stay out of all that.”

“I can go with you to meet the King of Beggars,” Geralt said. “I’ve already dealt with him once. I won’t let anybody hurt you and I’ll help you negotiate, if you need it.”

Éibhear’s eyes shone. “You’d go with me? That would truly set my heart at ease. Dealing with gangsters is not my forte.”

“Sure,” Geralt said. “Just one meeting. How complicated could it be? We’ll have your forge up and running in no time.”

“How altruistic of you.” Éibhear smiled. “I suppose you’ll be wanting a superior blade in return.”

“I did have my eye on that harvall,” Geralt admitted. “It fit in my grip like it was made for me.”

“Of course, you may have it,” Éibhear said, clapping his big hands together. “But for a true reward, I’ll forge you a sword worthy of killing a god.” He was glowing with the thought of it.

Geralt grinned back, already picturing the weapon sheathed on his back. “Perfect. So, we meet at the docks tomorrow night.” He reached for the bottle of vodka but it was already empty.

Outside the shop, night had fallen and the little cobblestone square held only the guardsmen by the huge brazier of the Eternal Fire. “I’d better get going,” Geralt said reluctantly. “It’s been a long day for you and it will be a longer day tomorrow.”

As he got to his feet, Éibhear also stood. “Don’t leave yet,” he said, looking a little forlorn. “Don’t you want to handle a new sword once more? No one will interrupt us this time.”

Geralt suppressed a grin at the image his words conveyed. He followed Éibhear up the stairs again, much closer this time, noticing how often the elf looked back at him. They were both a little warm from the vodka, but not drunk. Éibhear smelled like spices and soap.

When Geralt entered the room, he closed the door behind them firmly, and that seemed to be the signal. Éibhear turned and gave him a long look that said he didn’t at all intend to have another inspection of the weapons on the walls.

Geralt’s eyes drifted up his body from his black boots to the top of his sleek head. “Anything else you want to show me?”

Éibhear unfastened the strings of his leather apron and pulled it over his head. He dropped it on the floor. “Do you know how I choose the best metal for a good hard blade?”

“Do you touch it?” Geralt asked. He unbuckled his mail armor and let it fall away.

Éibhear moved close to Geralt and reached down to cup him. His grip was firm and hot, making Geralt exhale hard and jerk a little. “Touch is important. But I must also inspect it closely for flaws.” His other hand dropped to Geralt’s groin and his quick fingers worked to unlace Geralt’s trousers.

Geralt watched him, temperature climbing. He felt rough fingers against his hips as Éibhear yanked his trousers down. Freed, his cock bounced up, eager and stiff.

Éibhear cradled it in his palm and looked down at it, seeming to examine in from all sides. The brush of his skin against Geralt’s cock made Geralt’s lungs draw faster. Raw heat tightened his belly. “You’d better stroke it,” he growled, “See if there are any rough spots.”

“No, I need to taste it,” Éibhear murmured. And he sank to his knees with a swiftness that sent a kick of lust through Geralt.

Éibhear dipped his head close to the cock in his hand and breathed on it. “Good steel has a distinctive taste.”

“Unh,” was all Geralt could say as Éibhear took him into his mouth. The wet heat enveloped him and pleasure rushed through his body. He had to bite his lip to keep from thrusting in hard. Éibhear’s lips slid slowly down and he took him deeper. His tongue stroked along the underside, taste buds rubbing a soft friction.

Geralt groaned low and closed his eyes. His hand found the back of Éibhear’s head and he stroked the smooth hair. His fingers caught on the tie that held it back, and he loosened it so that the hair fell free. It slid over his wrists in a warm fan. He kneaded the soft place at the nape of Éibhear’s neck, felt the vibration of the elf’s moan all the way up his dick. Fuck…

Beyond the building bliss in his groin and belly, he reveled in the slick sucking sounds and the little snorts from Éibhear’s nose as he breathed in hard. He pleasured Geralt with a firm hand and tight mouth, with the eager focus he gave all his work.

Geralt stroked a hand through his hair, feeling the edge approach. He gripped Éibhear’s hair and tugged him back gently. His dick slid out of Éibhear’s mouth with a wet pop and nudged against his cheek. As Éibhear looked up at him with dark, wondering eyes, Geralt said, “Don’t neglect the dumplings,” and guided him a little lower.

Éibhear chuckled breathily and leaned to lick one of his balls. Geralt didn’t have any hair there other than a downy fuzz, so he knew the skin was soft and sensitive. He made a long sound of appreciation when Éibhear sucked the testicle into his mouth. His dick rubbed along the side of Éibhear’s face, leaking a wet trail.

After massaging the right ball with his mouth Éibhear moved to the left and gave it an even more vigorous treatment. His tongue teased Geralt into a wild state. He tried to rub his cock harder along Éibhear’s temple, but it wasn’t enough.

“Just stroke me off,” Geralt pleaded, hand still clutching Éibhear’s hair. “Fuck, I’m so close.”

Éibhear pulled back, letting Geralt’s ball flop out of his mouth. He leaned back, gripping Geralt’s cock in one big hand. “Just this?” He moved his hand up and down with calculated pressure that made Geralt’s toes curl and his eyes cross briefly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Geralt panted.

The rhythm of his strokes started slow and built to a calculated speed. He had a little twist to his wrist that made Geralt’s vision blur. Éibhear’s eyes locked on his and the subtle smirk on his mouth was ridiculously arousing.

Just as the delicious pressure inside Geralt built to a crescendo, Éibhear tilted his head down and extended his tongue. The tip touched lightly against the slit of Geralt’s cock. Light exploded inside Geralt’s head. He cursed loudly and came as hard as the punch of a rock troll. His spend gushed against Éibhear’s tongue and splattered on his chin. It dripped thickly down his neck to his chest.

Still groaning curses, Geralt dropped to his knees. His head was thick with pleasure, but he had to taste. He pulled Éibhear’s head to his and kissed him thoroughly, drawing out the salty musk of his own come and the savory flavors of spice and pepper vodka.

Their mouths parted and they panted against each other for a moment, faces still pressed close. “You should have kept your apron on,” Geralt murmured, pushing his fingers through the semen slipping down Éibhear’s front.

Éibhear laughed roughly as Geralt’s hand flattened on his chest. Geralt pushed him down to the floor and quickly worked his trousers open. Éibhear’s hard prick sprang into his hand and Geralt rubbed it briefly before bending and taking it into his mouth. The scents of sweat and arousal filled his nose. He didn’t waste any time, just sucked hard and deep.

Éibhear gasped and his head knocked against the floor. He groaned something in Elder Speech that Geralt couldn’t quite understand. His hips thrust desperately upward, hamming into Geralt’s mouth. His body convulsed like a hooked fish and moments later he was coming down Geralt’s throat.

Geralt sucked him through the aftershocks and only lifted off when Éibhear lay still and dazed on the floor. The burly elf was a mess of rumpled, stained clothes, wild hair and glistening skin. Still breathing hard, he threw an arm over his eyes, mouth curving up in incredulous smile.

“What’s your assessment?” Geralt asked him, hand massaging one muscled thigh.

“Highest quality,” Éibhear said between breaths. “Consider me a very interested party.”

Surrounded by a glittering array of weapons and armor, full of dumplings and vodka, and still loose from his release, Geralt felt as blissful as he’d ever been. He slid his palm around Éibhear’s hip and over the flat plane of his stomach. “Only the best for the master.”


	14. Interlude (Anna Henrietta)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Unknowing consumption of aphrodisiacs and sex under the influence (mildly dubious consent due to drugs)

From the top of the long staircase, festooned with pink blossoms spilling out of marble vases, Anarieta surveyed the Mandragora soiree. The courtyard below sparkled with colorful clothing, bright masks, false jewelry, and fluttering lights. Masked artists and their admirers clustered around tables laden with fruits and sweetmeats on silver platters. Trays of goblets glittered on every surface. Strategic lanterns and candles in wine bottles gave a soft glow to the night scene. Painters set up at their easels made a bold attempt to use the weak light. Harp and lute music drifted up through the chatter of conversation.

“This could take a while,” the witcher said grimly. He stood at her side, dressed impeccably for once in a wine-red tunic overlaid with dark cloth embroidered with gold flowers. It matched the embroidery on her own dress admirably. His trousers were darted at the knees and a twice-wrapped belt slung artfully across his hips. She’d had to order him to leave his weapons behind, which he was sour about. But standing next to her, he looked almost like a nobleman. He’d even taken the time to shave off that scruffy beard and comb out his silver hair. It still hung far too long to be fashionable, but there was no time for alterations now.

“We can take our time,” she assured him. “Cecilia has never been known to leave a party early.” She studied the tight lines on his forehead. “Stop scowling. We’re meant to be enjoying ourselves tonight.”

“We’re meant to be finding Cecilia and the Cintran,” he shot back.

“And how much unwanted attention will we attract if we charge into a festive gathering like a pair of eager bloodhounds?” she returned, getting irritated. “Let us at least make a pretense of normal behavior.”

He gave a tight nod and started down the steps. She followed, gaze sweeping over the people they passed but none wore a Koviri orchid. Scents of flowers and spiced meat drifted up to meet her. Women’s long gowns rustled, glasses clinked, and laughter rose around them. Anarietta saw Geralt’s gaze turn to the people throwing balls of paint at a stretched canvas.

“Give it a try,” she suggested.

He shook his head. “That’s a little more attention than I need.”

They strolled between the tables, nibbling here and there at the delicacies artfully arranged. Anarieta chewed a slice of crisp bread spread with a savory-sweet fish sauce and made a mental note to add it to her weekly menus for the palace chef.

She watched Geralt pick up a little cup of green liquor. “Artist hooch,” he muttered with a smile.

“Be careful,” she warned. “It’s quite strong.”

“Not for a witcher,” he said, downing it as though it were a swig of water. “You should drink something if you want to blend in.”

“Yes.” She picked up a goblet of wine and sipped it. It took all her willpower to keep from wincing. How could the Lady Orianna have such a sour, inferior vintage at her event? Apparently, she didn’t have a taste for wine.

They reached the shallow pool that stretched around the pale fountain graced with statues of nude women. Water lilies adorned the surface of the water and plump orange fish swarm leisurely around them. A man on a floating carpet hovered over the surface of the water, clearly the mage from Olfier. He waited until the eyes of the crowd were on him, then lifted his hands dramatically. Glittering dolphins emerged from the water, their bodies entirely composed of droplets. They leapt and dove and rose again, jewel-like in the glow of the braziers around the fountain. The crowd oohed with delight and even the witcher seemed impressed by the display.

But it didn’t take long for him to start moving again, scanning the faces with a faux casual gaze. Did he even know what Koviri orchid looked like? Well, witchers were supposed to be skilled in herbology.

They walked to the balcony crowded with people releasing red paper lanterns into the air.

“They’re said to bring luck,” Anarietta murmured, remembering a cold night long ago when she’d sent one off into darkness with Syanna’s help. They’d watched it until it disappeared, silent wishes trapped in both their heads.

Geralt made a symbol with his hands and the lantern sparked and lit. The glow of the flame turned the paper orange and it lifted off the railing. Steadily rising, it sailed off the cliffside and over the valley where the lake lay, lifting up into the starry sky.

“I didn’t know you believed in such things,” she teased him lightly.

“We can use all the luck we can get,” he said in that gravelly voice. His head turned back to the courtyard. “We need to check the alcoves and that area where people are dancing. Is Cecilia fond of dancing?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Anarieta admitted. She walked beside him to the south section of the courtyard where couples pranced and turned to a lilting tune. They were moving so quickly, she had to concentrate hard to look for the orchid.

The nearby table had a collection of small chalices filled with brandy. She took the opportunity to set down the wretched wine in her hand and pick up one of the chalices. The brandy was overly sweet, but it soothed her palette after the bitter vintage. She drank it easily, watching the dancers whirl by.

“She’s not here,” Geralt growled.

“Patience,” Anarietta reminded him. “Have a drink for Lebioda’s sake. You’re making me twitchy.”

He snatched up a chalice and downed it as easily as the absinth. Then he took another and drained it as well.

“There’s no need to be uncouth,” she grumbled. “Everyone is watching us, you know.”

Geralt sighed deeply. “I hate these parties. I hate these clothes. I want my swords and my armor. I want to be tracking griffins, not orchids. I don’t belong here.”

“Nonsense.” She raised her empty chalice and tapped it against his nose. “You look splendid. There’s no need for swords here. I need a tracker not a killer. That will come later.” The warmth of the brandy was radiating from her belly up into her chest. “Now take a deep breath and calm yourself. You are a handsome gentleman accompanied by a lovely lady.” A couple spun past them, laughing. “And now you will dance with me.”

Geralt’s yellow eyes filled the holes in his mask. “I don’t dance.”

She put down her chalice and gripped him firmly by the arm, pulling him toward the dancefloor. “You dance when your duchess commands it. Now just watch what the others are doing and follow their steps. It’s just like swordplay, yes?”

“No,” he said, stiffly following her.

She guided his hands to her arm and waist, then tried a few tentative steps. “They will think it strange if we watch for so long and don’t participate.” Her head was beginning to fill with a pleasant intoxication. She marveled at the strength of the brandy. “Come now, do as you’re told.”

He made an exasperated hiss and moved with her woodenly, circling as the others were. The music rose and swelled until it seemed to be strumming through all her limbs and vibrating in her heart. Her skin glowed with heat. The witcher’s hand on her lower back was a flower of fire, sending warm shoots up her spine. His red mouth under the mask beckoned her.

Anarietta drew in a quick breath, trying to steady herself. They were dancing faster now, flowing with the rhythm of the others. And the witcher was quite good at this, after all. He had a natural grace and fluidity, even if the tension in his muscles betrayed his true feelings.

Turning with him, Anarieta felt herself sliding closer, her heart beating like a calfskin drum. She couldn’t get enough air and the sky above them spun like a top. She was aware of a hungry itch under her skin begging for something unspeakable.

She stumbled and Geralt caught her, holding her close. The feel of his body against hers made her want to press and cling. She gasped and he pulled her back, out of the crowd.

“There was something in that drink,” Geralt hissed. “I can feel it working. We need to get out of here.”

“Yes,” she breathed, struggling to regain her senses. “But what about Cecilia? We still have to check the alcoves.”

Geralt’s hands clenched into fists. “You sit down. I’ll search quickly.”

He guided her over to the nearest bench and she took a seat. When his touch left her, the dizziness faded. She watched his back as he moved toward the row of alcoves. Frustration rose inside her. How _dare_ he assume she was some kind of wilting flower. This drink was nothing. Already, her muscles were humming with energy to move, act, do…something.

She stood and stalked after him, weaving through the people to the nearby lounges covered with curtains. Geralt was nowhere in sight, but he couldn’t be far. A man’s sleeve brushed her arm, and even through the tight fabric of her dress, she felt a tingle. All the bodies around her seemed to exude heat and scent.

Anarietta reached the curtain and pulled it back. The spacious alcove held about half a dozen people in various states of undress, clinging and tangling against each other. On the floor, two men and a woman were locked together, exchanging kisses and caresses. Moans and heavy breathing rose to Anarietta’s ears.

Anarietta gaped for a long moment. A sharp part of her brain told her to back away and maintain her dignity. But a spike of ardor was throbbing between her legs. She was acutely aware of the sensation of her nipples brushing against her clothing as she drew in each breath.

The Duchess of Toussaint was no stranger to carnal love. She was a widow after all, and though the duke’s brief conjugal visits were far from satisfying, she had also gained fame for taking the bard Dandelion as a lover before and after her husband’s death. He was far from the last of her companions, but the dance of courtly love grew wearying after sometime, and the sycophants of the palace had no appeal for her these days.

A tryst with an anonymous artist at a debauchery such as this would liven things up. She locked eyes with one of the men on the floor and he smirked at her.

No, she had a mission to accomplish…didn’t she? It seemed very far away now. The curtain moved beside her and another young couple stumbled in, looking flushed. “I told you,” the woman said. “The brandy in the pewter chalices and the nearest alcove. They do this every time.” She saw Anarietta standing there and smiled. “Coming in?”

Anarietta let the curtain fall shut. “Yes,” she said, feeling fire crawl up from her core through her torso and head. She was ravenous for touch.

“Hey,” said a gruff voice behind her. The curtain lifted again and the witcher’s head poked in. “What are you doing here?”

“A brief interlude,” Anarietta murmured, eyes drawn to the sheen of sweat on his neck. “Care to join me?”

Geralt swore loudly. “You’re drugged, can’t you see that?” His voice seemed rougher than before. “You don’t really want this.”

“Don’t presume to tell me what I want,” Anarietta ordered. “Just close the curtain.” She started to unfasten the hooks on the back of her dress. There were an infuriating number of them and she usually had a chambermaid to do it. “Better yet, help me undress.”

The witcher’s hands caught hers and he turned her around so that she was staring into his eyes, still hooded by the mask. “I’m taking you home. You’re not in your right mind.”

She wanted to slap him. “You think I’ll endure this insolence? You drank twice as much as me, and you believe yourself the sober one?”

“I’m a witcher,” he said, hands falling away from hers. “I told you I have a high tolerance for intoxicants.” Something in his voice and movements, the rhythm of his breath that made her think of a banked fire crackling in darkness.

Hardly believing her own impudence, she reached down and touched the front of his trousers. “You’re not affected at all?” The flesh under her hand was stiff and hot. He made a strained sound and his eyes fell shut.

She felt her own breath catch, imagining him inside her. Leaning in close, she spoke in his ear. “Your duchess requests that you attend to her needs.”

His eyes opened, blazing into hers. “You’re not my duchess and you didn’t hire me to fuck you. Especially not in the state we’re in.” He tugged at her wrist, trying to draw her back through the curtain. “Come on, now.”

She pulled half-heartedly against his grip, but it was firm. Her lips pressed into a disapproving moue. “If you won’t assist me, I’ll easily find another who will.” She glanced pointedly over the room where the various partners were writhing together. Her eyes caught the young couple who were still busy unlacing the woman’s bodice and the man gave her a lascivious wink.

Geralt growled and blocked her view, maneuvering her back to the wall where they were partially hidden in the shadow of the curtain. Anarieta leaned back into the wall and looked up at him. His face was very close to hers. “Listen to me,” Geralt said. His warm breath bathed her cheek. “You’re risking a huge scandal if anyone figures out who you are. And you could end up regretting this when you cool off.”

“We have masks,” Anarietta purred, wrapping her arms around his neck. “And I don’t entertain regrets. They are entirely useless.”

He opened his mouth to respond and she covered it with her own. Her hands caressed his hair and the back of his neck. She hooked a leg around his, pulling the skirt of her gown in tight. Geralt froze for a moment, but she felt a tremor run through him. Then he his mouth was moving against hers, lips sliding, tongue plunging. A thrill of triumph went through her. He pushed her solidly into the wall and they ground together, locked in erotic delight.

The weight and power of his body made her feel frantic for more. His hand dropped to grasp at the fabric of her skirt and pull it up to the top of her thigh. Thick fingers brushed the fabric of her undergarments and she moaned into his mouth. Her hips urged him on, longing for more contact. His hand pressed at the joining of her legs and she felt the damp fabric cling there. She rocked into his touch greedily.

Those fingers unfastened the ribbons there and tugged her pantaloons down. She dropped her foot to the ground and kicked off her shoes so that he could remove everything underneath. His fingertips brushed against the fine hairs on her legs and sent them tingling.

Then he straightened and reached down to free himself. For a tense moment, he struggled with the double looped belt, then he simply tore it apart and dropped it to the ground. Well, it was a fashionable accessory, but not exactly necessary, Anarietta thought as his hands went back to fumbling between them to open the front of his trousers.

“Quickly,” she said with impatience, trying to push his trousers off his hips.

He pushed her back into the wall, shoved her skirt up above her waist and smoothly lifted her. Gasping, she opened her legs, felt him between her thighs. The tip of his manhood nosed against her wet hood and then he pushed inside her, sinking steadily.

She opened her mouth in a silent scream and closed her eyes at the sensation. The spear of him filling her inner walls sent her into a paroxysm of pleasure. The thick heat pushed onward, and still he went deeper and deeper. His palms lifted her derriere and she wrapped her legs around his lower back and her arms over his shoulders. Her own upper body rest against the wall. Her skirt was bunched between them, but who could bother stopping to take it off? For a long moment, they stay fixed there, breathing heavily. The stretch inside her throbbed through her core

Anarietta squeezed around him experimentally and they both groaned. His fingers sank deep in her soft flesh and held her tightly. Then he started to move in little pulses. Her breath caught on a sob. Even the shallow movement was stirring a tempest up from her depths. She clung to him tighter and let her head fall back.

Holding her weight, he angled her lower body for deeper thrusts. The force of his motion rocked her against the wall, working a wild friction on her shoulders and the back of her head. Her hair fell out of its pins and slid against her face. She could only hang onto him desperately and ride the storm of passion crashing through her. She couldn’t control her voice anymore, shameless moans and shrieks falling from her lips as he plundered her with wild vigor.

So rough and bestial. So tawdry and low. It made her madly ecstatic. She was already hot as a feasting fire. The sound of his coarse grunts, the scent of their sweat, and the rhythm wrecking from the center all drove her to a sweet-sharp peak. Her body tightened and writhed and it rolled through her, leaving her breathless and shivering.

Geralt drove into her in a fast, shallow strokes until he too stiffened and groaned. Wet heat flooded her. As he carefully eased out and lifted her body back to stand against the wall, she opened her mouth to scold him. What insolence to think that he could spill inside her! How disgusting and common.

But her legs trembled beneath her and she had to grab at his shoulders. And then she felt annoyed at herself and pulled away, going to the low couch instead. It was currently occupied by a couple in the throes of passion, so she just leaned with her hands on the back to get her strength back.

Geralt gave a dark chuckle. “Got that out of your system?”

Anarietta didn’t bother gracing him with an answer. She stretched her shoulders, watched the man on the couch move down to push his face between the woman’s thighs while she squealed with delight. The itch started tingling under Anarietta’s skin again. She drew in another breath and looked over her shoulder.

Geralt leaned against the wall, watching her. He had pulled his trousers up again, but they were still unfastened. His smile tilted subtly under the shadow of his mask. “Do you want me to button up your dress?” he asked.

She reached up over her back. She had only managed to get a few of the hooks free before, opening a small triangle below her collar and above her shoulder blades. It would be hard to close on her own. “Yes,” she murmured, setting both hands on the couch again. The woman there was arching her back and praising her lover in rapturous tones.

The ache between Anarietta’s legs grew again. She reached down, pulling up her skirt again. She only meant to feel for the vulgar liquid sliding down her leg, a mixture of her fluid and Geralt’s seed. But the touch of her own fingers sent sparks up into her. She gasped and moved her fingers up to the damp bud of her womanhood. Pressing there made her vision blur with heat. Her heart kicked up another fast beat.

She felt Geralt’s hand on the opening of her dress. He pinched the fabric together and she made a soft sound. “Don’t. Just…come to my service again.”

“What do you mean?” he teased.

Her hands tightened on the edge of the couch. The couple there was shifting positions with the woman crawling down to suckle the man. The eagerness in her face when she licked the tip of his shaft made Anarietta feverishly hungry.

She tried to hike up her skirt again and felt his hands skimming up her thighs and buttocks. He palmed both cheeks and moved them. A sharp retort rose to her tongue, but all that came out of her mouth was another desperate gasp.

“Your Grace,” Geralt murmured. “Tell me what you require.”

“You know,” she hissed. “You can anticipate my needs.”

“You want my cock?” he said roughly. “You want me to bend you over right here and plough you until you scream?”

The crude words turned her suddenly weak with desire. Her breath squeaked in her throat. The woman on the couch was noisily sucking her partner’s manhood up and down.

Geralt’s hand moved between her legs to stroke her there and she rubbed shamelessly against him. “Yes?” he asked softer now.

“Yes,” she said hoarsely. She felt she’d go mad if she didn’t have him.

He pushed her skirt up to her back, spread her thighs and caressed her there while she gasped and trembled. Then he lifted her hips and she felt the tip of his shaft nudging at her outer lips. She was already wet and hot there, but he didn’t slide in immediately, just rubbed against her until she wanted to tie him down and forcibly mount him.

Finally, achingly, he pushed in, stretching her wide again. A moan vibrated through her. She lowered her arms and head, sinking further into the couch. The first thrust rolled her forward, jabbing deeper than ever. A high, wild sound escaped her. Another thrust, another stab of intense pleasure. Something about the angle of his tool impacting inside her drove her to wild delight.

The woman on the couch had moved to ride her lover and she rocked up and down, eyes closed, mouth open. The expression on her face mirrored what Anarietta was feeling, wracked with pleasure. The witcher’s thrusts grew harder and faster, pushing her closer to the edge. The woman on the couch opened her eyes and looked into Anarietta’s. Her mouth was very wet and flushed. She moved her hands up to her bosoms and caressed herself, lifting and squeezing the small mounds. Her thumbs circled her nipples. Her hips jerked steadily back and forth. She looked and Anarietta with all the depth of shared ecstasy.

Geralt’s shaft pounded a frantic beat inside her as he bent over her body. His hands held her hips in an iron grip. He leaned down and she felt his breath on the opening of her dress. He touched his tongue to her bare skin and it set a shock through her. He licked a damp patch there, then scraped his teeth against it.

Anarietta sobbed with the hot rush of bliss. Then the witchers’ fingers slid from her hip down her front. His touch pressed against the tight bud above her entrance. The rough pressure ignited an explosion in her head. Her body bent beneath his, muscles stretching tight as her spine locked in a long curve. She did scream then, high and fierce, a sound of victory.

Geralt’s head fell to her shoulder and he groaned a profanity, juddering into her until the spurt of heat came again. She barely felt it, so far above the clouds, she’d flown. The woman on the couch gave a joyous, gasping laugh as she too found her way to the heavens.

It didn’t take long to wipe off, pull on her underclothes, and fix her hair. Geralt fastened up the back of her dress. And they were back on the hunt. Geralt said the effects of the ardor-enhancing brandy faded quickly, which was a relief. They could get back on the trail of the Cintran with little time lost.

She could see the witcher casting glances at her as they moved back through the festivities, as though checking for any signs that she might throw him into a dungeon when she came to her senses. But Anarietta felt nothing but refreshed. The sore flesh between her legs and the scent of him on her body was a pleasant reminder of an evening’s entertainment.

“Of course, you will speak nothing of this to anyone,” she reminded him. “I certainly don’t want to remove your head when you’ve been so useful to me.”

“You’re too kind, Your Grace,” he answered drily. “And though I’ve enjoyed your attentions, I think we should leave it at this.”

He was more prudent than she’d imagined. Or perhaps he was thinking of the time she’d briefly sentenced her lover Dandelion to death after finding him in the bed of another. Her heart had softened when her temper cooled, but she still clenched her teeth at the thought of the faithless bard. Of course, the witcher could never be a graceful, silver-tongued courtly paramour, nor did he have any desire for that role.

“Certainly. A mere distraction for the night,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Think nothing of it.”

And if, for many nights after, she returned to the memories of that lascivious gathering at the Mandragora—held against the wall and bent over the couch like a common streetwalker—to bring herself some self-applied delight in the privacy of her bed chamber, none needed to know.


	15. Viper (Letho)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I haven’t been updating as much as I meant to. Full confession: I watched the Chinese drama “The Untamed” on Netflix and have been busy developing story ideas for _those_ beautiful monster-hunting men with swords. Don’t worry, I’ll keep writing for this fic too! I’ll have a short entry to post next week.
> 
> Letho! The only thing that bothers me about him (aside from his obvious steroid problem) is that I can’t figure out his accent in the English version of the games. Apparently, the voice actor is Welsh. But Letho sounds like a British guy pretending to be a noir private detective from New Orleans. I always find myself ignoring what he’s saying to contemplate his vowels.

**Viper**

The glitter of the tripwire caught Geralt’s eye first. He stepped over it carefully, extending his senses as he moved toward the barn. There, artfully covered by the grass lay an incendiary trap. Geralt disabled it with quick fingers. No need to leave this as a hazard if had to flee.

A little further another pair of traps blocked the way, both covered in dead leaves. Geralt chuckled to himself as he bent to unhinge them as well. Someone really didn’t want him getting to the barn. It just made him more curious. He cast Quen as a precaution, just in case some paranoid criminal with a crossbow was watching from the loft. But no one appeared.

He finally reached the door to the barn, left suspiciously wide open. But he didn’t sense anymore traps. He searched the space—old straw and rotting troughs. The battered crates had nothing, not even burlap rags.

From above, a familiar voice boomed. “Wolf, what are you doing sniffing around my den?”

Geralt turned, sword arm tensing. But the man looking down at him from the opening to the loft had no weapons drawn. He watched Geralt with the edge of a wry smile.

Letho of Gulet, legendary witcher of the School of the Viper and assassin of kings, looked like a massive, meaty attack dog. His deep-set eyes studied Geralt from under heavy brows. “Don’t tell me you’ve picked up my bounty.”

“No,” Geralt answered. “Didn’t know you were wanted. Last I heard you were enjoying the fruits of your labor in Nilfgaard.”

“Huh.” Letho scanned him for another minute, then gave a slight nod. “It’s a long story and I bet you’re carrying some booze. Better get up here.”

Probably, he didn’t want to leave the advantage of his perch. Geralt went to the ladder and climbed up. The loft contained a pile of old hay, a thin pallet, a shelf of jugs, and a low makeshift table with scattered coins, a map, and a smoking pipe. Garlic gloves hung from the rafters, shriveled and yellow.

“You don’t have any alcohol?” Geralt asked, eyeing the jugs.

“Nah, it’s all wine turned to vinegar. The stuff I have left I save for potions.”

Geralt pulled a flask of vodka out of his pack and passed it to Letho. “Lemme guess, Emhyr decided you were too much of a liability after you did his dirty work for him.”

Letho grunted, took a long drink, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His bare arms bulged with muscles crossed with heavy veins. “I know, shoulda seen it coming. But I thought he’d let me set up a Witcher school way out in the wilderness. I wouldn’t have bothered him. Goddamn paranoid bastard.”

“Well, you betrayed the Scoia’tael and the Lodge. I guess he figured you were too good at changing sides.”

A low chuckle. “Except I was working for Emhyr and Nilfgaard from the start.” He shifted his massive jaw. “You used to be Termeria’s guardian. I see that didn’t last.”

“Temeria’s gone, thanks in large part to you.” Geralt took the flask back and tipped a swig for himself.

“You still sore about that?” Letho’s expression never really changed much and his voice always stayed at a level growl, giving no indications of his current mood.

Geralt swallowed against the burn of alcohol in his throat. “Not really.” Letho might have killed Temeria’s king, leaving Geralt to take the blame, but he’d also helped Geralt track Yennefer and fight the Wild Hunt. He’d taken Triss and forced her to transport him away from Flotsam, but he’d also rescued her from prison at Loc Muine. After that, he and Geralt had reached a kind of truce. So, seeing him here again made Geralt curious and cautious, but not alarmed.

“How long have you been holed up here in this wreck?”

“Long enough,” Letho grumbled. “Mercenaries always hounding my ass. I figured a place like this is a good hiding hole. Get a chance to rest. Take a break from looking over my shoulder. But, fuck it’s boring.”

“Not much fun in the old barn of an abandoned estate?”

Letho grunted. “Haven’t had a decent drink or a fuck in months. Didn’t have much chance on the run anyway. Just sitting around smoking my pipe or beating off. Watching for whoresons who wanna kill me.”

Geralt passed him the flask again. “No wonder you were so willing to chat instead of attacking me on the spot.”

Letho surveyed him silently, eyes dark under the overhang of his brow. “Why’re you here, Wolf?”

“Old lady hired me to clear some monsters out of her estate. But it looks like you finished them off first.” Geralt shrugged.

“Sorry to deprive you of a good fight.” There was a glitter of something in his shadowed eyes. “If you want, I can spar with you. Get your blood running. I know you always regretted not fighting me at Loc Muine.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows slightly. “You just trying to get your hands on me?”

Letho’s lips curled up at last. “Not just my hands.”

Geralt grinned.

They stripped down to their breeches and shirts. Letho looked no smaller when free of his armor. He surveyed Geralt with a hint of a smirk.

Geralt swallowed. He’d never be able to best the hulking witcher in a contest of strength. Instead, he’d have to rely on speed and agility to bring him down. He readied himself, stretching his neck and shoulders, flexing his calves.

Letho charged at him without warning. He aimed to knock Geralt down with the sheer force of his heavy body.

Geralt lunged to the side, angling to grab Letho’s arm and pivot his weight into a fall. But Letho had anticipated this. He slammed a knee into Geralt’s hip, unbalancing him. As Geralt fell, he twisted, rolling out of Letho’s reach. He sprang to his feet immediately and tried to jump on his back and get him in a chokehold.

Letho just rolled back, crashed Geralt onto the floor under his weight. Boards creaked and dust flew up from the impact. Geralt tightened his grip, but Letho’s bulk was crushing his lungs. Powerful hands pried his chokehold open. Letho pulled free, rolled away.

Geralt immediately jumped on him again, jabbing at his breastbone with the heel of his hand. Letho caught his wrist and twisted his arm back while his other hand grappled with Geralt’s for control.

This was not the situation Geralt wanted to be in. He tried to get his knee up to push into Letho’s belly. But the bigger witcher yanked his arms up, forcing him to flatten his body against Letho’s. Letho wrapped both legs around the back of Geralt’s thighs, trapping him there. Their groins jostled together and Geralt felt Letho’s hefty erection slide against his own.

“Yield, Wolf,” Letho said, squeezing his wrists painfully.

“Yeah,” Geralt gasped.

Immediately, Letho released his grip. Then he rolled Geralt off him and onto the loft floor.

Geralt lay on his belly, already horny and aching. He hadn’t coupled with someone who could physically overpower him in a long time. It was crazy exciting.

Letho’s hand covered the back of his neck. Blunt fingernails scraped his skin as though scratching a dog’s pelt. Then he turned Geralt on his side. A heavy hand yanked at the front of his breeches, ripping the ties without thought. Geralt huffed a laugh. At least he had more string in his pack.

Letho shoved Geralt’s breeches down until they bunched around his calves. Then he moved away for a moment. Geralt smelled the musk of processed bear fat. Thick fingers spread it in between Geralt’s thighs, surprising him.

He looked over his shoulder and saw Letho pulling down his own breeches, exposing an impressive cock. Though no longer than Geralt’s, it was thicker than he’d seen before—a fat hilt rising above plump balls. Geralt’s own prick twitched with anticipation.

Letho lay down against his back and pushed his cock between Geralt’s thighs. A low sound escaped him when Geralt squeezed his muscles. The tip of the cock brushed Geralt’s ballsack. Letho threw his leg over Geralt’s, his thick thigh pushing Geralt’s legs tighter together. He wrapped his arm under Geralt’s and grabbed his shoulder. When he started pushing, a ragged gasp escaped him. His hips pressed into the soft meat of Geralt’s buttocks. His cock massaged Geralt’s balls. The rhythm and the friction made Geralt’s prick throb and start to leak.

Letho’s thrusts sped up. He panted into Geralt’s ear. His big hand fell from Geralt’s shoulder and slid down to grip his cock.

Geralt cried out. The rough palm on his sensitive foreskin was intense. Letho’s hips were bruising his backside. His cock jolted Geralt’s balls, and his hand stroked Geralt to the edge of painful pleasure. Geralt let himself go, thrusting into that hot grip until his over-full balls emptied. The hit of electrifying release blasted through him. He spurted over Letho’s hand onto his own belly.

Letho grunted and fucked the tight grip of his thighs until he too stiffened with a groan. He bit Geralt’s ear. His chest pressed hard into Geralt’s back and he pumped his seed over Geralt’s balls and the underside of his spent cock.

His muscles relaxed against Geralt’s and they lay there, sucking in deep breaths.

Geralt reached back and patted Letho’s sweaty flank. “Didn’t want to fuck my ass?”

Letho snorted in Geralt’s abused ear. “You couldn’t take me. Most hookers can’t. Anyway, I didn’t want to waste time stretching you.”

“Try me,” Geralt challenged. He felt light-headed and loose with the after-wash of pleasure.

Letho hummed thoughtfully. “Alright. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” His fingers played with the warm spunk on Geralt’s stomach.

It took them a few minutes to gather the energy to move. Finally, Letho eased away and pushed Geralt onto his front again.

Geralt drew his knees up under him and lifted his ass. The thought of taking that heavy shaft made him shiver with excitement.

Letho’s fingers squelched in the bear fat and he pushed a slick glob between Geralt’s buttocks, feeding it into his hole. His meaty finger plunged deep, twisting and rubbing. Geralt felt a tingle of heat run through his slack cock.

Another finger pushed in beside the first and Letho had a powerful hook to stretch and prod him. He felt around, searching relentlessly. He sought out every sensitive place.

Geralt dropped his head between his shoulders and moaned openly. It felt like those two fingers were teasing him for ages before the third one joined them.

Letho’s fingers were thick in proportion to the rest of him, and three made Geralt’s rim burn. But the stretch contrasted beautifully the with jolts of senstivity when those finger tips stroked him deep.

Geralt’s cock filled and rose again until it curved up against his belly. Letho’s fingers worked inside him endlessly. After a while, they felt like they belonged there.

“Almost ready,” Letho grunted. His voice rasped with the rough edge of desire.

Geralt, painfully hard, breathed a sigh of relief.

Then another finger tip jammed its way inside him. It was too much. Geralt yelped in protest.

“Come on, Wolf. If you wanna take me, you need it.” The fourth finger sank in gradually.

Geralt’s asshole burned with the stretch. He struggled to relax his muscles. Sweat gathered under his arms and in the hollow of his back. He focused on his breathing. All of Letho’s fingers were deep inside him now. Only his thumb remained to stroke the underside of Geralt’s balls.

When the pain subsided and Geralt felt as full as he’d ever been, the marathon of stretching came to an end. Letho withdrew his fingers, leaving Geralt sore and empty. Geralt let out a shuddering sigh and flexed his ass, enjoying the feeling.

Then Letho’s sticky hand clutched his hip and the blunt head of his cock rubbed Geralt’s rim. The breach wasn’t bad compared to his fingers, but the stretch went on and on. His oiled cock pushed deep into Geralt’s body, re-arranging his insides.

Geralt dropped his head onto his forearm with a long groan. The heat melted him from his balls to his belly to his throat. His brain slowed and stopped. All he could feel was the increasing pressure filling him to his limits. Letho’s dick was a fucking log plunging inside him.

When at last Letho’s hips were flush against his ass, the other witcher breathed out a gusty sound. “You still with me, Wolf?” His voice was richly triumphant.

Geralt could only make a nonsensible sound, somewhere between a whine and moan.

“Good boy, you took it all. Now I’m gonna fuck you into the floorboards. Yeah?” He didn’t wait for a reply, just started pumping shallow strokes into Geralt’s ass.

The heat of the friction lit up all the pleasure centers in Geralt’s body. He gasped into his arm. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging slightly. His fingernails scraped the wooden boards.

Letho barked a shaky laugh and drew out so that only the tip of his dick remained inside. Then he slammed into Geralt hard, pushing him forward. Geralt shouted a curse. The impact made his eyes roll back and his dick slap against his stomach. He clenched his jaw as Letho gripped both his hips, fingers digging into a bruise from their sparring match.

Hands welded on Geralt’s hips, Letho leaned in and fucked him in fast, hard thrusts. They jarred Geralt’s sanity, hammering pleasure with a thundering rhythm. Drips of his sweat hit Geralt’s back as he moved. Letho made a rumbling, hungry sound, increasing volume with the speed of his thrusts. He fucked Geralt like a beast in rut.

Geralt could only brace himself and take it, overstimulated and aroused to the point of pain. His breath came in choking sobs as the wide cock inside him drove him over the edge. His balls drew up tight. He bit the meat of his forearm and felt the violent pleasure rip out of his center. Still rocking under the force of Letho’s massive body, Geralt shot his seed all over his torso and the rough wood floor.

Letho groaned and pushed Geralt down so that he sprawled out on the wooden planks, with only his ass in the air. Letho leaned in hard and fucked wildly, until at last he spilled, grinding as deep as he could. A few more pulses inside Geralt, and he stilled, panting.

His big hand covered the back of Geralt’s neck again, like a ritual. “Not bad,” he breathed.

Geralt just grunted in response and closed his eyes. His body was a bruised mass of bliss. He felt Letho ease out of him, leaving his ass sore and empty again. Letho dragged his fingers through the trickle of spend there and rubbed it into one of Geralt’s asscheeks.

They rested for a moment, breathing slowly returning to normal. Then Letho got to his feet, pulled up his breeches and started putting his armor on again. Geralt sprawled on his side and watched him. Letho had a body like a prize-winning bull and most people mistook him for a brainless goon. But Geralt knew firsthand that a substantial amount of cunning twisted inside that bald head. Emhyr would have to throw the whole of Nilfgaard at him to catch the wily viper.

Reluctantly, Geralt forced himself to move and dress. He schooled his face to keep from wincing. Between the rough fight and the rough fuck, he might have to take a Swallow potion to get his agility back. He eased his breeches up, knotted the remnants of the ties together, and reached for his jacket.

Letho whistled softly, looking out the window. “Did you disable my traps?”

Geralt made a face. “Sorry. I didn’t want to stumble into them on my way out.”

“Well, now I’ve got a hoard of mercenaries moving in,” Letho growled. “Fuck.”

Geralt quickly fastened his jacket and reached for his steel. “How many?”

“Half a dozen at least.” Letho looked at him with a grim smile. “Whataya say, Wolf? Wanna fight? Or are you too sore from the ploughing I gave you?”

Geralt scowled at him. “Fuck you.”

Letho chuckled and unsheathed his own steel. “All in good time, friend.”


	16. Body (Vlodimir von Everec)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possessive pronouns are tricky here

**Body: **Vlodimir von Everec

“There! Those are perfect.”

Geralt frowned at the sight of the clothes hanging on the line, shining bronze and cream in the late afternoon sun. Or at least he would have frowned if he could.

_I’m not about to steal clothes so that you can preen like a peacock._

“You want to show up to the festivities looking like a grizzled, homeless hound that dragged itself out of a bog?” Vlodimir chuckled with Geralt’s mouth, in Geralt’s voice. “I won’t allow it. Besides, we’ll only borrow the garments. After the night ends, they’ll be returned.”

_And I’m the one that faces the consequences if we get caught_, Geralt reminded him sourly.

He hated, _hated_ being possessed and couldn’t think of a worse roommate for his body than the blustering, lascivious ghost of Vlodimir von Everec. His arrogant confidence and lecherous charm put even Dandelion to shame.

When Vlodimir had first rushed into Geralt, he’d fought the possession so hard, he’d passed out. When he woke, Shani had been there checking on him. Suddenly, a stream of outrageous flirtation had burst out of Geralt’s mouth without his consent. At last Vlodimir left his body long enough that he could explain the situation to Shani. Before he knew it, Geralt was bargaining with the ghost and agreeing to take him to the wedding party of Shani’s friend.

In truth, he’d rather hunt rotfiends and nekkers in the bowels of a stinking cave than deal with Vlodimir’s antics. But if Geralt ever meant to fulfill his contract, all of Olgierd’s ridiculous tasks had to be completed—including giving his (remarkably lively) dead brother a night to remember.

Vlodimir snatched the clothes off the line and raced back off the path. He pushed through the tall grasses and shrubs to descend the steep slope to the banks of the river. There he found a hiding place in the shadow of a large cottonwood tree, its long roots creating a hollow where floods washed the soil away. There in a rocky refuge, Vlodimir stripped off Geralt’s armor and the rest of his clothing.

He looked down at the bared body before him and Geralt looked too, although he had no control over the angle of the head.

“You look like you only fuck harpies,” Vlodimir quipped, running Geralt’s fingers over the raised scars that littered his skin. “Who’s been tearing you up like this?”

_I’ve had a long life and a lot of hunts. Now are you going to put some clothes on already?_

“Hmm.” Vlodimir turned up Geralt’s lips in a grin. “No hair either. The wenches like you smooth and slippery?”

_It’s a side effect of the witcher mutagens. White hair on my head. No hair on my body._

“Interesting,” Vlodimir murmured. He reached down and cupped Geralt’s cock and balls as though weighing them. A glow of arousal started in Geralt’s groin. It was a bizarre feeling, his own hand like a stranger to him, but he could feel the sensation of the touch deeply.

_Really? You want to do this right now?_

“It’s been an inconceivably long time since I’ve had actual flesh to enjoy, Geralt. Allow me one blissful pull before I must return to eternal rest.”

Geralt tried very hard to roll his eyes, but couldn’t even manage that. Well…better just let the bastard get off. Maybe it’d make him less likely to pursue Shani and the other women at the wedding celebration.

_Make it quick,_ he told Vlodimir.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Vlodimir said.

Geralt’s own teeth scraping against his bottom lip gave him a strange jolt. His body was Vlodimir’s now, but he still felt everything.

Vlodimir stroked fingertips up the length of his cock, brushing and teasing it to stiffen gradually. Blood pulsed hot in Geralt’s groin and balls. The fingers tightened on him and eased his foreskin away from the head of his cock.

“Impressive,” Vlodimir murmured. His voice—Geralt’s voice—had a gravelly rasp. “It seems I was fortunate in my choice of bodies to inhabit.”

He closed his fingers around the cock and gave it a gentle stroke. Breath hissed out of his throat. “Damn, that’s the right stuff.” His hand moved in a slow, steady pulls, sending shallow waves of pleasure through their shared body.

He had to lean back against the rough bark of a large root. His thighs tightened and his belly flattened. He closed his eyes, drinking in the sensations.

Geralt felt disoriented and confused, his brain trying to reconcile what he was doing to himself without any kind of planning or control. Vlodimir stroked him like he could do it for days, slowly building the pleasure until it became unbearable.

Vlodimir lifted his other hand to Geralt’s chest and rubbed over the tip of one nipple. The unexpected touch sent a little shock through Geralt. Vlodimir licked his thumb and moved it back to the nipple, rubbing it firmer now. The callus on Geralt’s thumb rasped a wild feeling. He’d never done this to himself, though he enjoyed when others played with him. His cock twitched and liquid beaded at the tip.

Vlodimir removed his hand from his cock briefly, then spat in his palm three times. When he wrapped it around Geralt’s dick again, it was wet and slick. Geralt’s own saliva coated his shaft, his hand making a warm, slick tunnel.

Vlodimir’s strokes got faster and harder. He stripped Geralt’s cock, riding high on the euphoria that was mounting inside them. His head felt back against the tree. Geralt was moaning…or Vlodimir was moaning for him.

The fingers on his nipple pinched and twisted, bringing streaks of sweet pain. Then it moved to his other nipple, rubbing and wrenching that one as well. Geralt’s back rolled against the tree root. He thrust into his grip with a frantic rhythm, hips jerking. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this—on the edge of a heart-pounding explosion, just from touching himself.

Then Vlodimir stopped. The hand stilled around his throbbing erection. Blood pulsed in Geralt’s ears and the aching need for release shuddered through him. He cursed Vlodimir lengthily, but could feel the ghost’s wild delight as he drank in the heady sensations.

He lifted his body away from the tree and bent forward slightly. The hand dropped from his chest and reached back, smoothing over Geralt’s ass before delving deep between his cheeks. One moist fingertip circled his rim, triggering a rush of heat that ran from his cock up to his chest.

The fingernail scraped him slightly as the fingertip pushed inside. As the length of the finger filled him, his other hand began stroking his cock slowly. Geralt felt like he was standing near a bonfire, the heat searing his skin. Sweat collected in the hollow of his throat and collarbones. Thick pleasure pooled in his belly and rolled in syrupy pulses through the rest of his body.

The finger inside him worked him just the way he liked. The hand on his cock sped up, tugging his foreskin up and down.

_Faster_, he told Vlodimir with what was left of his brain.

The ghost didn’t reply. Stifled moans and harsh gasps fell out of Geralt’s mouth. His muscles stiffened, straining against the oncoming blast. The hands on him took on a violent force, fucking and stripping him at rapid speed. The friction was really starting to hurt, but he didn’t care.

His toes curled on the bare ground. He bit his lip and snarled, reaching the precipice. Then the crushing orgasm almost knocked him out. Geralt lost control of his vision. He felt his muscles pulsing and heard the loud groan rushing out of his mouth. He jerked and shuddered, still stroking himself through it.

Gradually his sight came back to him. He was sweaty, sticky, and sore, and panting like a dog. His muscles were still shivering.

Vlodimir gave a shaky laugh. He straightened and walked unsteady to the edge of the river. He splashed water over Geralt’s body. They both felt the sweet shock of the cold and he rinsed the sweat and spend from his skin.

Then he raised a hand to his mouth and felt the swelling of his lip where he’d bitten it. Geralt sighed internally.

“We’ll just have a pretty, rosy mouth to kiss that red-headed morsel,” Vlodimir told him cheerfully.

_You are not going to be kissing Shani._

“We’ll see how the evening goes,” Vlodimir said with a certain amount of glee. “So far, it’s been quite enjoyable.”

He dried their body with the blanket from Geralt’s pack, still smiling and delighting in the experience of having skin to touch.

“An excellent start to our day together, Geralt. And we still have so much to come! An entire night of revelries.”

Geralt groaned inwardly. After years as a silvery shadow in a crypt, Vlodimir finally had another chance to enjoy a corporeal form, and he would definitely make the most of it. All Geralt could do was hold on for the ride.


	17. Fool's Luck (Priscilla and Dandelion)

**Fool's Luck**

“And then, I called out for Shani to open the window, and who do you think was in there with her, stark naked?” Dandelion lifted his mug with a flourish.

Priscilla laughed. “Geralt, no! You’d just met her!” Her blue eyes gleamed with mirth. She sat beside Dandelion at the table in the corner of the Rosemary and Thyme, wine in hand, savoring Dandelion’s tales.

Across the table, Geralt shot daggers at Dandelion with his eyes. “You’re one to judge me. I remember the time—”

Dandelion pretended not to hear him. “That poor, sweet girl, a brilliant medical student, debauched by the lecherous old witcher.”

“She climbed onto _me_,” Geralt’s head was warm with the weight of a few beers and the heat of the fire. He resisted the urged to kick Dandelion’s leg under the table.

Priscilla raised a hand. “Wait, was this before or after you met Yennefer?”

“Well…” Geralt looked away to the fire burning in the hearth. It had sunk down to low coals as the inn emptied out over the course of the night. “Yennefer and I have always been sort of…in transition.”

“But didn’t you end up with Triss after her?”

Dandelion filled Priscilla’s glass again. “My dear lark, if you want the complete account of Geralt’s romantic life, we could be here the whole night. I haven’t even told you about Fringilla.”

Priscilla’s eyes widened. “The Nilfgaardian sorceress? Geralt, have you slept your way through the entire Lodge?”

“No,” Geralt protested. “He’s making it sound worse than it is. Three—no, four sorceresses, that’s all.” He squinted, thinking. “Maybe five. Not so many for a century of living.”

“But that’s only the sorceresses,” Dandelion said gleefully. “We haven’t even touched on the vast array of other characters so fortunate to enjoy my friend’s favors.”

“And we won’t be,” Geralt said with a warning growl. “Not unless your current lover wants a full account of all _your_ conquests.”

Priscilla sipped her wine with a knowing smile. “I’m beginning to think you could challenge Dandelion’s record.” She lifted her hand and ran her fingers down the side of Dandelion’s face. “Tell me, lads, in all the time you’ve traveled together, did you ever enjoy each other?”

Geralt froze, hand tight on his mug.

Dandelion gave a weak laugh. “My dear, whatever would make you extend such a lewd inquiry?”

Priscilla shrugged. Her lips were dark and glistening with the sheen of the wine. “Curiosity.” Her thumb stroked Dandelion’s chin. “Have you ever shared a woman?”

Geralt swallowed hard.

Dandelion’s mouth fell open. Priscilla pushed it closed with her fingers. “Don’t gawp. It’s a legitimate question.”

“No,” Geralt said a bit hoarsely. “We haven’t…shared.”

Dandelion’s wide eyes were locked on Priscilla. “Is there something you’d like to suggest, my love?”

Priscilla dropped her hand to Dandelion’s thigh and reached across the table to curl the other over Geralt’s hand, where it was wrapped around his mug. Her fingers were long and delicate. “These long winter nights can be interminable. What more could I ask for than the attention of two fine gentlemen, both famed for their love-making?”

Dandelion’s gaze flew to Geralt, who remained disbelieving and uncertain. But the plea in Dandelion’s eyes melted him. “Alright,” Geralt said. “If you both are fine with this…”

The bed that Dandelion and Priscilla shared wasn’t particularly large, but Geralt had fucked in far less comfortable spaces. Dandelion moved in close to kiss Priscilla, fingers going to deftly unlace her bodice, a skill that still amazed Geralt.

Geralt moved to stand behind her and set his hands on her hips, still wondering. He’d never joined an established couple before. At his touch, Priscilla arched her back and pushed her backside against his groin encouragingly. Geralt’s fingers tightened on her hips and his mouth dropped to her neck. He nudged aside her fall of silky golden hair and sucked at the soft skin where her neck joined her shoulder.

She tilted her head, baring more of her neck. One of her hands moved from Dandelion’s head to caress the side of Geralt’s face. He worshipped her skin from her shoulder up to her jaw. Finally, he had to move away when Dandelion completely unlaced her bodice and pulled her tunic off.

No sooner had Priscilla slid out of her top than Geralt was pushing her leggings off her hips. She wore nothing beneath, and her pert, smooth ass beckoned, just below the fall of her long yellow hair. In the back of his mind, Geralt wondered if this was all a wild sex dream he was having.

He pulled the leggings down to her ankles, pausing to kiss the backs of her knees and her calves. Dandelion was busy with both hands on her breasts, returning to kissing her mouth again. Priscilla lifted her dainty feet one at a time so that Geralt could slide the leggings completely off. Soft pale hair covered her slim legs. Even with her mouth full of Dandelion, she lifted a foot to trail the arch over Geralt’s jaw. He kissed the curve of it.

With a loud grunt, Dandelion tried to scoop up Priscilla and carry her to the bed, but his strength faltered and they stumbled their way toward it, nearly tripping over Geralt.

Priscilla fell back onto the bed, giggling. “Disrobe yourselves, my attendants.”

“With great haste, lady.” Dandelion yanked at the fastenings of his doublet.

Already out of his amor, it didn’t take Geralt long to strip down and he soon moved to help Dandelion. He knew how to get the bard out of his clothes as fast as possible, he realized with a tinge of irony. As his hands skimmed over Dandelion’s form, he felt a ghost of that old pleasure. When he’d seen that Dandelion had at last settled down with a single companion, Geralt had assumed that their nights together were at an end. Now he had a chance to again share a bed with his friend.

But for now, they were both intent on the lovely woman before them, lounging seductively and watching them with an amused curve to her lips. Her skin was pink and peach in the glow of the fire. Her shining tresses trailed over her curves.

As the last of Dandelion’s clothing dropped away, he went immediately to the spread of her thighs. He climbed onto the bed and lowered his face between her legs, fingers opening her folds for his mouth. Priscilla gave a breathless laugh and fell back on the covers. Her thighs parted further giving him more access.

The greedy sounds that Dandelion made, slurping at her cunt, made Geralt’s cock rise. He gave it a slow stroke, watching the blissful expression transform Priscilla’s face. Her eyes fell half-closed. She turned them to Geralt, rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. She stroked the back of Dandelion’s head with one hand and squeezed one of her breasts with the other.

Geralt swallowed hard and moved to her. She sighed and lifted her chest with an arch of her back. He reached out to her, watching her face.

“Touch me,” she murmured, still petting Dandelion’s head.

Geralt bent and moved a hand to her other breast, stroking over the warm, velvety skin. She vibrated at his touch and her nipple darkened and hardened. He rolled the mound of flesh gently, felt her gasp. She took his other hand and guided it to her second breast. He squeezed and fondled them both until he couldn’t take it anymore and lowered his face to nuzzle at her chest.

“Yes,” she moaned.

Dandelion snuffled somewhere below. “My love, you taste like paradise. I could feast on you for days.”

“Don’t stop,” she ordered. Her free hand went to the back of Geralt’s neck, guiding him to her left breast.

He licked around the taut nipple, teasing more sounds out of her. Then his mouth closed over the hard bud and he sucked until she was shuddering under him. After that, he moved to the other breast and gave the same treatment to that nipple. His tongue circled, his lips sucked.

Priscilla was arching and shaking. She gasped and whined. Finally, she said, “Oh, inside me now, please, please.”

Dandelion’s weight shifted on the bed. “As you wish, darling.”

Geralt lifted his head to take in the delicious sight of Dandelion on his knees, holding his long red prick and guiding it between his lover’s thighs. Priscilla moaned as he entered and Geralt felt her pleasure like an echo ringing through his flesh. Dandelion pushed in slowly, face pink with rapture. His eyes met Geralt’s and his hips jerked reflexively.

Geralt felt saliva fill his mouth. He wanted to kiss Dandelion and bite him under his jaw. But he had other priorities. He turned back to Priscilla who was gasping and lifting her hips into Dandelion’s hands. Her face was a picture of delight.

Geralt bent back to her breasts, covering them with long strokes of his tongue, coating her skin with a moist sheen. He felt her body rocking with Dandelion’s slow thrusts. Her breath came in happy huffs. Her hand kneaded the back of his head.

When her chest was sloppy with his spit, he lifted his head to look into her eyes. He squeezed her breasts together to make a tight trough and pushed his thumbs in and out of it.

“Oh?” she said with a note of surprise, still pushing back into Dandelion’s thrusts. “There? Oh, please do it.”

Exhilarated, Geralt climbed onto the bed, straddling her ribs. He guided his cock to the hollow between her breasts and pressed them together with his hands. It made a tight, slick tunnel around him.

Priscilla moaned, staring down at the swollen head of his cock poking out the top. She put hands over his, applying even more pressure.

Picking up Dandelion’s rhythm. Geralt started to thrust into the warm, fleshy channel. The sensation made his balls fill tight and hot. On the back of his shoulder, he felt Dandelion’s panting breaths. The bard’s sonorous voice filled his ear with quiet curses and pleas.

The two of them rode her for some time, Dandelion fucking her cunt and Geralt fucking her tits. They moved faster and faster, rolling together to the same beat. Priscilla went from squealing delight to open-mouthed ecstasy. Geralt felt her writhe and shake. He watched her eyes roll back when she screamed.

The sight of her face sent him over the edge, cock pressed tight between her breasts. His seed arced out over her throat and chin. Behind him, he felt Dandelion’s rhythm stutter. He groaned and whined and ground into her as he finished. His face pressed into Geralt’s back between his shoulder blades. Fast, wet breaths puffed against Geralt’s skin.

They fell asleep together, close and sticky. Dandelion was wrapped around Priscilla, her head tucked under his chin. Geralt lay against her back, one long arm draped over them both.

Sometime around dawn, Priscilla wriggled free and went to the wardrobe. Geralt wondered if he should get up too, but Dandelion was still fast asleep, head smooshed into the pillow, and the morning was cold. Geralt pulled the blanket back over them both and closed his eyes.

He hadn’t even returned to sleep when he felt Dandelion stir and roll into him. Dandelion’s mouth pressed to the ridge of Geralt’s eye. It gave Geralt a happy, warm feeling. Then he felt Dandelion’s hand brushing down his stomach to reach for his cock.

“Really?” Geralt mumbled, uncurling. He sighed a little at the comfort of Dandelion’s fingers wrapping around his dick, tugging him softly.

Dandelion just made a sleepy noise and pressed his mouth against Geralt’s. They kissed slowly and messily until a rising urgency built up between them. Geralt’s cock hardened in Dandelion’s hand and he moaned into his mouth.

Dandelion inhaled sharply and turned his head to speak in Geralt’s ear. “Do you have oil with you?”

“Really?” Geralt repeated, wondering if this was an extension of his earlier sex dream.

“I think there’s some hair oil in the cabinet,” Dandelion murmured. He rolled away from Geralt, leaving a cold empty space behind.

Geralt wondered if he should say something about Priscilla and her expectations, but he didn’t want to sabotage the moment. He kept his mouth shut and watched Dandelion poke around on a shelf and bring back a narrow glass container. He uncorked it and poured a little of the viscous substance on his palm. The scent of lavender and lemon filled the room.

Dandelion handed the bottle to Geralt and reached behind himself with a look of quiet desperation. He leaned against the edge of the bed and worked his fingers into himself, as Geralt had shown him so long ago. His eyes took on a slack half-lidded look. His lips parted.

Geralt stared, transfixed. He pushed himself up to a sitting position on the bed, bottle clutched in one hand.

When Dandelion finally finished his quick stretching and climbed onto the mattress, Geralt finally found the presence of mind to use the fragrant oil. He hurriedly slicked his hard cock, a fast stroke that roused him almost as much as Dandelion’s hot eyes.

“Quickly, my stallion,” Dandelion murmured, trying to straddle him. But his oily hand slipped off Geralt’s shoulder and he pitched sideways, almost hitting his head on the wall.

Geralt caught him and brought him down to the bed, chuckling. He laid Dandelion flat on the mattress.

“Now, hurry,” Dandelion urged, opening his legs. “It’s been ages.”

Geralt obliged him. He lifted Dandelion’s hips and guided his cock inside, clumsy with his eagerness. They both inhaled sharply as he pushed in. Dandelion arched his back and raised his hips higher. His eyes had a wild sheen. “That’s it,” he hissed.

Sucking in another harsh breath, Geralt steadied himself. He started to roll into Dandelion, pushing little noises out of the bard. Dandelion stretched his arms above his head and gripped the headboard.

“More,” Dandelion demanded. “I need more. Primal force, Geralt.”

Geralt slammed into him, eliciting a sharp yelp from the man under him. “Like that?”

Dandelion started to respond, but Geralt kept surging into him, knocking the breath out of his lungs. He watched Dandelion’s hands tighten on the slats of the headboard. The muscles stood out in his arms as he gripped them.

Geralt bent Dandelion’s lower half, lifting his hips even more. Dandelion locked his ankles around Geralt’s lower back. His mouth hung open and his eyes burned into Geralt’s. There was an unhinged joy in his face. It made Geralt lose his control.

He thrust hard and fast, building the pleasure too quickly, racing for the edge. He was fucking into Dandelion with a thunder like hoofbeats in his head. It was probably why he didn’t notice the door open immediately.

Somewhere a noise or scent pierced the edge of his awareness, deep beneath the rush of blind lust. Geralt turned his head and saw Priscilla standing in the middle of the room, watching them. Her heair was wet. She wore a loose white shift and walked barefoot. Her head tilted to the side and an amused smile stretched over her delicate mouth.

Geralt stopped moving, drawing a moan of disappointment from Dandelion, still wrapped around him.

Priscilla just smiled wider. “Gentlemen, don’t stop on my account.” She folded her legs and sat on the floor, her shift stretching over her spread knees.

Dandelion made a shocked sound, head turning toward her. But he didn’t move or tell Geralt to get off. His cock was still hard as iron between them. Geralt felt the banked heat under his skin screaming for release. He shivered all over with the overwhelming need to fuck.

Then Priscilla pushed the thin fabric of her shift up her thighs and reached down between her legs. Geralt felt Dandelion jerk and squeeze around him. He couldn’t help rocking back into that sweet, tight grip. They were both breathless, both watching the woman on the floor as she moved her arm rhythmically, stroking herself. Her lips parted and her clear eyes clouded over.

“Holy shit,” Geralt groaned. He started fucking Dandelion again, hips snapping. Dandelion moaned in response. His head fell back as Geralt hammered into him again and again. But his lust-wracked gaze never left Priscilla.

She cupped one breast through the fabric of her shift and she continued to pleasure herself. She squeezed it in her palm and rubbed the nipple with her thumb. Her back and hips undulated with her movement. Geralt smelled the pungent scent of her arousal.

He fucked Dandelion with a panting urgency. The edges of his vision blurred and glowed. He watched Priscilla’s chest lift and her body shudder, her breath catching and shaking. The satisfied triumph on her face made him unbearably hot.

Priscilla rose then, and approached the rocking bed. She looked benevolently down at the two men still locked in coitus and extended her hand. Her fingers were wet and shining. She slid them over Dandelion’s face, across his gasping mouth, coating his cheeks, chin, and lips with a glossy sheen.

Then she raised her hand and pushed her fingers into Geralt’s mouth. He groaned. The fleshy female taste went straight to his cock. The scent flooded his brain. It triggered something animal inside him and he lost himself. He hit the precipice, so suddenly it startled him. And then he was grunting and jerking and spilling deep. Dandelion gasped and whimpered, trembling slightly.

Geralt couldn’t think; he just rolled off Dandelion and collapsed beside him. Belatedly, he reached over to stroke Dandelion’s hard red prick. But Priscilla batted his hand away.

“This is for me.” She leaned forward and ran her tongue over the head of the weeping erection.

“Oh,” Dandelion gasped, his face a picture of ecstasy. “My darling…”

“Hush,” she murmured. She sucked at the head as though savoring a morsel.

Geralt was too drained to participate, but he couldn’t take his eyes away from the view, especially when Priscilla climbed over Dandelion, lifting up her shift.

She sank down on his cock with easy grace, lowering herself with a look of pure happiness. “There you are.” Her shift slipped off one shoulder, revealing the edge of her breast. Her tight nipples showed hard points through the thin fabric. The morning light illuminated her like the angel on a church window.

She rode Dandelion with slow certainty, seeing how close he was to the edge. Dandelion’s vast vocabulary had been reduced to hoarse repetitions of “Lovely…perfect…so good.”

Geralt knew Dandelion had always had uncanny good fortune. How he got out of all the situations he’d landed himself in over the years…it seemed almost miraculous. And now he was here, getting fucked into incoherence by a witcher’s cock and a troubadour’s cunt.

Geralt pushed himself up to his elbows, watching Priscilla rolling her weight on Dandelion’s hips, wet hair clinging to her neck. He turned his body and leaned down toward Dandelion. The bard had a glassy-eyed look of a man high on desire. He mouthed Geralt’s name as the witcher bent to kiss him. The taste of Priscilla lingered on his lips and Geralt licked it up. He kissed Dandelion deeply and messily. Their teeth clicked together. Geralt sucked on Dandelion’s frantic breaths, swallowed his cry. He felt Dandelion’s release roll through him and kissed him through it.

When Geralt lifted his head, Dandelion’s head flopped to the side boneless and drained. His eyes looked glazed over with blissed exhaustion.

Geralt laughed, soft a low. He exchanged a look with Priscilla, still astride her lover. “Have you ever heard that fools have the best luck?”

She smirked warm satisfaction. “Then we are all three fools.”


	18. Captive (Iorveth)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I exhausted all the scenarios for these two to have sex in canon when I wrote _don't think it will all be fine._ So this is a side scenario I made up, set in the forest by Flotsam.
> 
> The sex is a little rougher than the others. Geralt invites everyone's favorite dom elf to play. If you want soft, tender lovemaking for this pairing, this is not the chapter for you.

**CW: **rough sex, dom/sub play with no safe words or negotiated boundaries

**Captive**

The witcher knelt in the center of the tent, his back against the trunk of the sapling that served as the central pole. His ankles and wrists were tied behind him. But Iorveth didn’t trust that he didn’t have a weapon concealed behind him, or some kind of trick.

Ele’yas stood to the side, sword held at the ready. Iorveth didn’t doubt he would welcome the excuse to take off the witcher’s head. They’d lost half a dozen to the attack on the dock road where Roche and the witcher had fought their way through Scoia’tael with the sorceress shielding them from arrows. And although some time had passed, wounds still hadn’t healed.

“_Vatt’ghern_,” Iorveth murmured. “No pretty mages to protect you this time.”

The witcher just looked at him steadily with those beastly yellow eyes. He didn’t appear fearful or angry. “Any particular reason you trussed me up here?”

“Trespassing on Scoia’tael lands, aiding the scum Vernon Roche, and attacking my people.”

“I’m not allowed to defend myself? They came at me first.”

“What are you doing in Flotsam?” Iorveth asked point blank.

“Looking for the man who killed King Foltest. We tracked him here.”

Iorveth crouched before him to look him levelly in the eyes. But he kept one hand near his knife hilt, just in case. “Everyone says it was you who killed him.”

The witcher showed the first flicker of expression, a small, sardonic smile. “I think you know quite well that isn’t true.”

“Is that an accusation?” Iorveth said, amused. “Should I pretend to care which tyrannical _dh’oine_ claims our lands and whether or not he lives or dies?”

“I figure you prefer them dead.” His voice was low and dangerous.

Iorveth unsheathed his long knife and trailed the flat of it across the witcher’s cheek. “I prefer _all_ humans dead. Your kind is a pestilence spreading across this world.”

The witcher didn’t flinch. “Not human. And I can’t breed. But I’m sure you’ll come up with another reason to kill me.”

Scars cut across his face and down his neck. One didn’t survive that many fights without resilience and cunning. Iorveth tried to imagine all the ways the witcher might try to escape.

He tapped the side of his blade against the witcher’s chin. “Maybe if you can give me some interesting information, I may find it in me to spare your life.”

“How interesting?” The witcher turned his head to slide his chin up against the side of the knife, like a large cat rubbing against a leg. “Maybe if you untie my hands, I’ll remember something. My shoulders are so sore, I can’t think straight.”

Iorveth inclined his head to Ele’yas, who met his eyes with surprise. But he moved behind the witcher and cut the ropes around his wrists while Iorveth held his knife under the witcher’s throat. He leaned in close to block the witcher from throwing a magic sign at him.

“Thanks,” the witcher breathed against his face. “You don’t look very comfortable, yourself. Feel free to sit on my lap, if you’re gonna be so intimate.”

Iorveth chuckled and shifted his weight. His knee came down to press firmly into the witcher’s groin. “Maybe I should crush your balls to make certain you don’t breed.”

He felt a twitch of movement under his knee and the witcher inhaled hard, eyes sharp. “It’s gonna be like that, huh?”

A flash of hot shock ran through Iorveth. He sneered back at the witcher. “Don’t enjoy it too much.” He glanced at Ele’yas and barked an order in Elder Speech.

Ele’yas held his sword against the witcher’s neck as Iorveth bound his hands in front of him. They were large and scarred, like the rest of him. He didn’t resist, just breathed steadily, eyes flickering back and forth between the edge of the sword and Iorveth’s swift fingers.

Iorveth leaned back, checking his handiwork. Now he could see his enemy’s hands easily and react before he attacked.

The witcher’s head rolled back. “Is this an interrogation or do you just like playing with ropes?”

“Oh, are you bored?” Iorveth asked. Before the man could answer, he slapped him across the face. The sharp crack of the sound was immensely satisfying.

The witcher’s head snapped back. His eyes opened. He looked at Iorveth with a new expression of eager attention. Iorveth felt an answering rush of excitement in his head.

Ele’yas chuckled and tapped his blade against the witcher’s neck.

It annoyed Iorveth. Irritation and impatience began to crackle under his skin. “He is secured now. You may guard the entrance while I question him.”

Surprised, Ele’yas’ eyes widened. But he gave a brief nod and walked out through the door.

Iorveth pressed his knee into the witcher’s groin again. “What were you doing in the river glen? Looking for our dens?”

“Looking for nekker nests,” the witcher said. The gravelly rasp to his voice, made Iorveth’s pulse quicken. “But if I’d known I’d get treatment like this, I would have been looking for you.”

Iorveth snorted. “You like this? Me hurting you?”

“You call this hurting?” His lips peeled back. “I call it foreplay.” He lifted his bound hands, reaching toward Iorveth’s lap. “Give me something to really yell about.”

Iorveth hit him again without thinking. He felt the impact of bones and teeth against his palm. It hurt.

The witcher groaned. “Fuck.”

Iorveth pressed his knee down harder and the witcher ground up into the pressure, panting softly. A trickle of blood welled in the corner of his mouth. Iorveth pushed his thumb between the witcher’s lips and forced his mouth open. There was a cut on the inside of his cheek, mingling blood with saliva. The witcher opened his mouth wider. His tongue curled against Iorveth’s thumb.

“You’re mad,” Iorveth murmured. He felt fevered himself, halfway to delirium. He drew his hand away, smeared pinkish spittle over the witcher’s jaw and down his neck.

“You like it?” The witcher asked thickly.

He gasped as Iorveth’s hand tightened around his throat, just under his jaw. He swallowed hard and his fingers brushed between Iorveth’s legs, igniting a flare of arousal and danger.

Iorveth jerked back, hand going to his knife again. But the witcher just laughed softly. He arched his back against the pole, lolling his head to the side. “Come on, don’t get scared. I promise not to touch you again.”

Snorting, Iorveth got to his feet. He reached down to grab the ends of the rope around the witcher’s hands and used them to yank the witcher’s arms up above his head. He tied the rope around a protruding knot in the pole, leaving the witcher stretched out before him.

The witcher tilted his head back to inspect his new position with a grim smile. He looked back at Iorveth. “Now that I’m all strung up, what are you gonna do with me?” He opened his thighs, showing a prominent bulge in the front of his trousers.

“Madman,” Iorveth said in a low growl. “Did you forget why you’re here?” He wanted to hurt the witcher. He wanted to make him crawl.

“I’m only just figuring it out,” the witcher said. “Can we skip the posturing? I’m already on my knees. What are you waiting for?” His tongue ran over his lips, leaving them glistening. His bottom lip was already beginning to swell from Iorveth’s hit, and the side of his face was red.

Iorveth lunged toward him, grabbed him by the hair and yanked. He shook the witcher’s head like an unruly dog. “Deviant. Stop insulting me.”

When he released his grip, the witcher’s head fell forward. His hair had all escaped its leather tie and spilled over his face, making him look like a wild thing. His breath came fast. When he looked up through the white strands, his feral eyes stared at Iorveth with a primal hunger.

Searing rivulets ran through Iorveth. He had the bizarre urge to bite the witcher’s lip. “You...”

The witcher’s eyes dropped to Iorveth’s lower body. His leather skirts covered front of his trousers, but he was so hard, he wondered if the witcher saw it.

“I can smell how fucking turned on you are right now,” the witcher said. “Are you gonna give me a taste?”

“Only to shut you up,” Iorveth said. Blind with lust and anger, he pulled off his belt and loosened his clothing enough to get his cock out. “Bite it and I’ll scramble your guts with a hot iron before I kill you.”

“Mm hm,” the witcher said. He licked his lips again, eyes taking on a kind of glazed look.

Iorveth grabbed him by the hair again, jerking his head back. When the witcher’s mouth fell open, he shoved his cock into it.

A moan rolled through the witcher, vibrating through Iorveth’s cock. He bit back the sound rising out of his own lungs. The witcher’s tongue stroked over him. It rubbed the underside of his prick, urging little pulses out of him. He thrust into the tight heat a few times, already feeling his balls tighten, aching. His fingers dug into the witcher’s scalp, holding him in place. He fucked deep, feeling the man choke around him.

Then Iorveth, withdrew, slipping out between his lips. The witcher coughed and spittle ran down the side of his chin. His eyes looked drowsy and strange. Then he smiled slowly.

Iorveth loosened his hold on the witcher’s hair. He moved his hips to slide the wet shaft of his cock against the witcher’s face, smearing saliva and leaking seed there. The witcher closed his eyes and sucked in his breath. His back arched again and he tried to turn his face into Iorveth’s cock.

Deliberately, Iorveth lifted the toe of his boot and pressed it between the witcher’s legs.

A shudder ran through the witcher and pushed back against the boot readily. “Fuck me,” he hissed.

Iorveth slid his cock back to the witcher’s lips and rubbed it there. The witcher’s tongue stretched out and licked strokes and circles over it. When the need became too great, Iorveth pushed back into his mouth, a slower slide this time. He savored every second as the hot mouth closed around him.

The witcher groaned and sucked at him hungrily. Iorveth thrust shallowly, falling into the insane pleasure of the moment. He stared down at the rough face before him, lips stretched around his cock, blazing eyes on his. He scraped his cock against the inside of the witcher’s cheek and watched the bulge pumping there.

The little grunts the witcher made as he sucked cock and rubbed his trapped erection against Iorveth’s boot made Iorveth’s mind go red. He dug his fingers into the witcher’s hair again and fucked into him hard and fast and deep.

The witcher’s throat convulsed around him. Iorveth pounded into it, jolting strangled sounds of the man. When he finally hit his limit, red light burst before his eyes. He threw his head back and clenched his teeth to keep from shouting. He poured his seed down the witcher’s soft, tight throat. A few more pulsing thrusts and he slipped out, trailing more spend down the witcher’s jaw and neck.

The witcher swallowed and coughed, sucking in frantic breaths. But his hips still rolled up, driving his hard prick against Iorveth’s boot.

Taking pity on him, and still high on a wave of pleasure, Iorveth kneaded the witcher with his toe, giving him more friction. He stroked his fingers through the loose hair. The witcher moaned a rough sound. The muscles in his arms flexed with each pulse of his body.

Iorveth looked at his wrecked face—swollen lips sticky chin, watery eyes. He reached his other hand down to close his thumb and fingers under the witcher’s jaw. The pressure made the witcher’s eyes roll up in his head. He moved faster against the boot on his groin, grinding into it frantically. Iorveth’s hold tightened on his throat.

He felt the witcher’s release break through him, hard and powerful. His arms strained and his chest jerked forward. His head tossed in Iorveth’s hands. He cried out and pushed into the foot between his thighs in shuddering waves.

Iorveth released his hold and watched the witcher go slack, breathing hard. His face was red and shining with sweat. His eyelids fluttered. His hair stuck to his skin. He looked up at Iorveth at last, dazed but laughing silently.

“What’s so amusing?” Iorveth asked. His shivering fingers struggled to dress himself.

The witcher’s voice was a hoarse rasp. “You’re better than I thought.”

_Insane_, Iorveth thought again. _The mutagens have scrambled his mind_. But he could make no such excuse for himself and the beastly desires that their fierce game had aroused.

Instead of speaking, he got a flask of water and tipped it into the witcher’s mouth. It washed away the lingering blood and semen on his face, leaving dark trails on his shirt.

“You gonna just leave me with breeches full of spunk?” the witcher rasped.

“Yes,” Iorveth said. “Do you expect me to bathe you?”

“I thought you liked witchers,” he said. “You sure got friendly with Letho and the vipers.”

“And you seem to have allied yourself with Roche. We have nothing in common.”

“I think we get along.” His smile was dark and his voice was a strained hiss now. “I know you helped Letho, but how much do you really trust him?”

Not very much; Iorveth was no fool. He gave the witcher a long, appraising look with an edge of scorn. “And I should trust you instead?”

It was impossible to know how the witcher had escaped, but he was gone in the night. A slit had been cut in the back of the tent, so he had somehow managed to get a knife, or someone had come and cut him free.

Whatever the case, they would certainly meet again. And Iorveth found himself very much looking forward to it.


End file.
